OCD | A Short Story

IV.

this chapter is uber long, holy shit. it's probably my favourite one as well, so, yeah. also, i've suddenly gotten double the amount of reads i had a few days ago which is amazing and idk, i'm just happy. thanks to everyone who has read this. ily. x

                                                 CHAPTER FOUR

My mother had always told me that I was hard to please. She told me that I was picky with my dinner, eating the wet food first and the dry second. I’d spoon the peas drenched in the gravy of her Sunday roast into my mouth but leave the dry ones, and then I’d move onto whatever else was coated. After that, I’d cut my potatoes into neat squares and line them up in order of most burnt to least; then I’d complain that they were bland and that they’d taste better with gravy on them. I think that was the only time she didn’t understand me, but she soon learnt. It all added up in the end.

Yet, here, now, walking beside the most flawed person I had ever met, I was completely and utterly pleased. I couldn’t find a thing wrong. I often found myself distracted whilst walking with others, missing the cracks and having to go back and do it again, bumping into people and lamp-posts out of pure concentration. Paige’s voice was so loud and clear to my ears that I could do both, all while smiling.

“What are you doing, weirdo?” she asked upon noticing how I was whispering numbers under m breath. “You won’t even look at me. I’m not that hideous, right?” Paige laughed, probably to make sure I knew she was kidding. My throat didn’t squeeze shut at the word – or rather, insult – ‘weirdo’. I just shook my head, finally looking up at her briefly.

I opened my mouth and closed it again, gawping like a fish as I felt the bridge of my nose redden with embarrassment. “Of course not, you’re – you’re stunning.” I paused, swallowing the lump of nerves in my throat. “I just... it’s the thing.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

I paused. I took a deep breath. I counted my steps quietly, my heart soon becoming audible and – the numbers mixed together uncomfortably, and now my collar was starting to itch. What was wrong with me?

Everything, a voice in my head reminded.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I was – I’m so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot and I always dig my nose into business that isn’t mine and, fuck, I’m sorry—”

“I have OCD,” I said casually, tucking my fingers into my palm and tightening them into a fist. I repeated this action a few times. I’d never told anyone my exact problem before, especially not this easily. Once upon a time, when I used to get all my pencils and pens out at school and line them up in a neat row, kids would snigger and take them when (they thought) I wasn’t looking. They would call me a retarded spastic behind my back when (they thought) I wasn’t listening. I didn’t need eyes or ears to know and feel cruelty, though they certainly helped in the matter.

Paige was strange. She was strange in the way that she could make anybody comfortable within a quick glance, a smile, and a small exchange in of words. I tended to do the exact opposite by making anybody I came near to incredibly uncomfortable. Some see me looking at them, maybe even hear me count cracks in the pavement or freckles on their cheeks, and get freaked out, like I’m a suspect of a crime case sussing out my next victim.

I don’t see much family nowadays, after what happened with my dad, though I’d occasionally see my aunt and she’d look at me and smile. It was a strange smile, though; one that screamed pity. Aunt Judy would always remind me that I had a face only a mother could love, which could be why people tended to dislike me on first glance. Brown eyes and a plain smile and loose blonde curls -- that was me.