Counting Thorns

Chapter 1

Sam’s POV

Just to recap before I begin, I hate telling stories. I never know where to start. I mean, I generally get the idea of what I want to say. I just never know how exactly to deliver it. I can’ t ever come up with those hilarious one-liners that makes reading a book entertaining, assuming reading could actually ever be entertaining in the first place. (I’m more of the type of person who falls under the “visually impaired” category, as apposed to the “visualizer” - give me a television and I’m set!).

The other reason I hate telling stories is because of the audience I have to deliver it to. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate you guys - whatever unfortunate souls that pronoun seems to fall under - but I always end up focusing on whether or not my audience enjoys the way I phrased this or that or if I went to fast or maybe I should tweak this a bit or what if this is boring? My point being, I stop writing for the sake of whatever idiotic purpose I originally started with and instead drive myself to the brink of insanity with what my therapist once labeled as “perfectionism”. 

I threw my stress ball at him for that one.

Anyways, that’s kind of why I’m surprised Brian gave me this assignment, considering his delusions with my issues of perfecting everything. How on earth is he expecting me to tell my story when I’ll likely end up not getting past rearranging the first sentence ten thousand times? I think he should go back to clinic and order a new therapy brain. He needs a new model - How Does That Make You Feel 2000. Heh.

So, I guess I’ll stop rambling and start with my story already. After all, he said I wasn’t allowed to erase, so everything I write ends up being permanently etched in here and the inability to change my mistakes is literally driving me insane. Maybe this was a secret plot to fry my brain out, so they don’t have to sedate me before putting my in the looney bin. 

Once upon a time

It all started

Way back when

“Ugh!” I grunt as I chuck the idiotic binder across my bedroom. This is ridiculous. I’ve gotten better things to do with my time than sit around and perform some weird form of therapeutic torture on myself. 

I tumble roll off of my bed and land butt first on my floor. Smacking my lips together a couple of times, I decide I’m in the mood for a soda and possibly some food. By food, I mean anything cold, creamy, delicious, and completely bad for me.

I head down my stairs, being very cautious not to step in the wrong area and cause the floorboards to creak. I absolutely hate it when they do that. It’s like they’re taunting me for having chosen the wrong spot to walk on. Not even my foot placement decisions can remain sacred anymore.

As I move past the stairs to the corridor, I pop my head out from behind the wall and look around from side to side. When the coast appears clear, I dash towards the large silver refrigerator and pop open the door. I look around slowly at first, and then push past all of the “health” food packages and veggie burgers and any other sad excuse for imitation food there is out of my view and reach my arm all the way towards the back until I grab onto a cold red cherry IBC root beer.

Then, I yank open the freezer and open the icebox to grab the first thing my hand touches from my secret stash. I pull my hand back out and examine my finds. Hmm, a Rocky Road Ben & Jerry’s pint. Not too shabby.

As soon as I feel satisfied with my gathering, I start to sneak back across the hallway towards the boxed in serenity I call my room. However, I hear shuffling as I reach the stairs, and fearful of confrontation, I make the mistake of bolting up the stairs, hitting every single creaky step along the way.

“Sam?” I hear a muffled voice from down below me inquire. I swear, it’s like the Gods of Inconspicuousness despise me.

“Samantha, dear? Is that you?” My hand jolts towards for my door handle and grasps onto it with a death grip. The sweat on my palm was making it difficult to successfully turn the handle, and my other hand was full of my fattening stash. I hear foot steps approach the second floor. Each creak was like an antagonizing countdown to my reclusive termination. 

“Sweetie?” Damn circular door knobs and gluttony.  

Finally, I get a good grasp on the knob and throw myself into my room. I shove all my weight onto my door until I hear it close with a satisfying “click” of the lock.

“Samantha?” My heart freezes. The voice is right behind me. I know she heard me close the door. I know she knows that I’m awake, but I choose to say nothing, as if the silence could convince her otherwise. She jiggles the knob, only to find it’s locked, which at this point in my life time should come of no shock to her.

I hear a sigh and the sound of someone scurrying away. I should feel bad. I should have heavy guilt falling around me for so blatantly ignoring Sherry. But I don’t want to think about how bad I should feel. Instead, I turn on some Plug in Stereo, pop open the lid to my Ben & Jerry’s ice cream pint, and shovel a large spoonful of Rocky Road into my mouth. Now this is what I call therapy.