It's a complicated order.

This is how it continues

      Do you ever get the feeling like you're anticipating an event but you're also scared because it could ruin your entire day? Your whole day hanging in the balance of something about to happen?

   My entire life is that feeling. I won't rip out fistfuls of hair all day and I'm doing so good, and at night I cross my fingers that I am finally over the pulling. I get so excited that I've finally done it. I won my battle with trich. I actually smile for once.

   Then the next morning, I wake up next to a pile of hair.

   The past three weeks have been the hardest. It usually is for people with trich. It's summer, you're bored and lonely. The bald spots get bigger in effect of boredom and loneliness.

    I can't seem to win.

   The front door slams when I snap out of my thoughts and back to reality.  My mother walks straight to her room, yelling across the house,

"Oliver, did you clean while I was gone?"

No.

"Uh, yeah mom."

     I followed her into her room. It was horribly messy but still cleaner than mine.

  Her room was red. There wasn't another way to explain it. Her walls were red. Her sheets were red. Even her bathroom. RED.

   I never really liked the colour red.

   Mom tells me to set the table for supper and I start to feel it as I walk into the dining room.

   The pinpoint on my scalp.

    The needle being pushed in my head.

   Don't pull. Don't pull. Don't pull.

     I set the table with unease and my mother makes her plate of a horrible chicken dinner I attempted early on in the day. She didn't seem to notice that I was as tense as could be.

   I had been so good about not pulling for the full twelve hours she was at work. So Good. I didn't wan-

"Oliver. School's tomorrow, do you want to bring something?"

     She means a figit toy. Like stress balls or a Tangle. Or a transformer. Just something to keep my hands busy, so I don't "accidentally" pull during school.

    "I was er planning to wing it and not bring anything."

Bad choice of words.

    "Oli, you can't! What if you pull and the students around you say something?!"

     "I've kinda grew up with them my whole life, mom. They all know why I bring random things to school. They wouldn't ask if they already know."

Even worse choice of words.

    She has a horrible scowl on her face as her fork scrapes the plate. Was she trying to intimidate me?

"Oliver Marshall, you will bring something tomorrow."

    I nod and leave it at that. I wasn't in the mood for her ridiculously childish arguments.

     I didnt touch anything on my plate, I wasn't hungry. I doubt she was either. I dump most of my plate in the trash and toss the plate in the sink.

    I started to walk to my room, (practically skipping because I was definitely excited to rip out whatever was causing the syringe in my freaking hair) when my mother grabbed the side of my arm to pull me back.

  

    "Oli, I'm sick and tired of this attitude. I set up an appointment with the therapist on Wednesday. I expect you to be home as soon as school ends. Okay?"

   It takes all my strength to not roll my eyes. I nod with a kind smile and she releases me.

  When I get to my room I sit on my bed and pull out a book. This book is extra special. The Cell by Stephen King. My father gave me this book telling me it was the best.

    I haven't even finished the description of the book and I already know how it ends. I have a sixth sense. I can predict Every. Single. Ending. Ever.

    The book is hardcover with a white jacket and a cheesy blood splatter printed on it. Stephen is known for his horror cheesiness, right?

     I zoned out. I feel myself yawn, I crack my neck, and look around. Everytime I zone out, I look around as soon as I "come back". I have to look around. I have to clean up whatever hair is laying around.

ZONE OUT = HAIR GONE

     I look up at the white board sitting in my room. Zone out is hair loss. I need to stop that. I can't but I like to act like I can. It inspires my mother.

      Today was Sunday. School Tomorrow. On Sunday's, I usually go to my dad's house. I would do that today, but my mom likes taking me to school on my first day. She doesn't like to accept that I'm fifteen, not twelve.   

        The clock on my phone reads 10:45 PM. I should go to sleep. I scroll through Twitter and Facebook quickly before falling asleep, my alarm set for school.

The first day of school.