Peroxide (Peterick)

this chapter is as short as ur dick

Electricity pangs inside me from the argument between Dr. Saporta and myself, abetting my travel to the rickety swing set in the unfinished park, and perhaps it's a sort of empowering type of electricity, not that I would know would how positivity resonates in oneself, but it's so disparate from what I'm used to, and I can't establish this early whether or not I aspire to seek it in the future.

Regularly, a compression of the chest stops by for a visit, masquerading as my friend until it induces a simulation of drowning, and in that moment, I can't help but wonder if I am actually dying, if that would even be a problem at all.

Compression and depression go hand-in-hand, crouching down in a meadow and poisoning the flowers with their sickly touch as they concurrently intertwine fingers, and it is a sure thing that no one believes the powers of either, attributing it to hormones or being out of shape, when in verity, it is the process of decomposition at work, a process so foreign to certain people that they discredit it with the casualty of a step.

But now that I've broken free from Dr. Saporta's grip, if only for this week, depression and compression fall to their knees in strife, but they are silent, for they never surrender — they are only postponed until a future date when they are most unwelcomed — and they wait for a clarion call into action, into my brain.

For the time being, my feet bound joyously to the park, free of the weights pushing them down over and over and demanding that they rise again to encounter the same fate as provided before. For the time being, I take willful note of the birds' chirping, their jubilant melody about which no one knows. For the time being, I am content.

Is this what it feels like to be neurotypical? It's a shame they take it for granted, simultaneously making life troublesome for the mentally ill. The only difference, however, between the neurotypicals and myself is that they are oblivious to the pounding twin forces until they are no longer neurotypical, and they then describe this ordinance as the tables turning, when it is actually a whirlpool that they approached too steadily in their seemingly permanent, innate confidence; there is no tradeoff.

Once you go, you're trapped, and you're defined not by the altruism of your heart, but by the complexity of your mind, and that ideology runs like silk through one's hands, so natural and desired that it becomes second nature, and suddenly when the silk rips for one painfully neurotypical person, they break the fourth wall, and the tides sweep them up so that they might proclaim their injustice.

But do they vocalize the predicaments of the previously existing members of the bottom of the whirlpool? Very rarely do they learn. Woe is them, I suppose, for their unacceptable ignorance.

~~~~~

That empowerment lasts until a buzzing in my pocket jolts me back to the cruel reality of anxiety and heart palpitations, and the questions that Dr. Saporta abhors flood inside — but it's not like I care about pleasing him, considering I stormed out of his office fifteen minutes before our session ended.

Who is it? What do they want? Am I in trouble? Have they been watching me, and is that how they got my phone number?

When I check my device to see who texted me, panic drills into my chest at the display of the unknown number.

Hey, Patrick! It's Pete, if you didn't catch that already.

"How do I respond to this?" I shout to no one, pinkies jabbing into the metallic chain of the swings. "There's nothing I can do for him, so why is he texting me?"

My expression withers inside the desolate expanse of the park as my heart prepares for its horse race, visualizing how it plans to succeed before the actual threat has exposed itself, and I curse it for doing so.

Another beep flies from my phone, this time from a recognizable source.

I'm at another art show (did you know that there's a real critic here?), but this time I didn't tell my mother I would bring Mikey back home, though she still needs him picked up. Would you mind doing it? Brendon and Ryan are both busy doing something else, probably egging their neighbor's car, the one who sits on his lawn in a beach chair and waters his flowers with orange juice.

My mouth discharges a sigh, perverse to my already moving fingers.

Yeah, that's all right.

A few seconds pass.

Your aura suggests a lack of enthusiasm.

I giggle.

You can detect my aura? And I swear — I'm fine. I'm going right now, so don't try to stop me, Gerard.

I predict the vibration in my pocket is the eldest Way brother attempting to thank me, but all I can think about is how I'll get to see Pete.

I'm still not sure if that's a cause for nervousness.

~~~~~

A/N: I could've put this chapter in another but I outlined incorrectly so whatever

you get a v v clever title yeh

current vibe: when my school made a joke out of the fact that my principal likes to stalk people's computer tabs

~Daknutts