What do you want with me?

The Diagnosis

*Help me God*. The clicking of the  Paper mate biros. The slither of silence aching his anxiety. Anything and everything started a fire inside his stomach. A veracious fire of anxiety and anger. *Breathe in and out*. These words danced around his distracted mind, reminding him of the last appointment he had had. The pristine paint and the smell of washing components. It made the whole experience more infuriating than it needed to be. Posters splattered all over the walls, 'We can help you', 'You will get through this'.  It was a constant reminder that he was not normal.  That he was different. Not in an edgy way. The way that makes people stare and pity the fool talking to himself. Or parents ushering the kids across the busy road just to get away from him. He couldn't help talking to himself. Of course he didn't realise he was talking to himself. He was almost certain someone was there with him, just chatting, as if they were old friends coming to reunite once more.

The bitter stares he encountered from snobs, turning up there abnormally large noses at him and then going back home to discuss the encounter with the "weirdo". Weirdo. He had been labelled with that name for many long, excruciating years. The bitter rush of pain and humiliation he felt whenever someone called him it could sometimes become unbearable. Many a times he had tried to let it all go and just dissappear. Take his own life. End it all.

The only thing stopping him from suicide was a waitress. A woman with fair skin and auburn, frizzy hair that covered her deep emerald eyes. He had been going to the same restaurant, every day for almost half a year now, just so he could encounture a small glimpse of a convocation between him and the waitress. He had never seen someone in this way before. It confused him. Why does it hurt? Why doesn't she feel the same way? It both frustrated him and enraged him. There was one perticular reason he was specifically attracted to this waitress. She wasn't afraid of him. She didn't judge him or turn her nose up at him. She accepted him. To her he wasn't a werido. Weirdo. Again the word channelled around his mind. Like a fly that wouldn't go away, or a sibling that won't leave you alone. He closed his eyes harshly. Crushing his delicate eyelashes against the base of his eyes, scraping against his rough skin. *Breathe.* He kept telling himself this. *In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three* His phychiatrist taught him this. When he first heard the words come out her mouth he laughed and said you think that breathing, which is what I do every day, is gonna help me. But it did. It refreshed him. Relieved him.

Two hours had past. *It will be over soon. * He would reassure himself.  Soon I will be sat at home eating overly soggy fish and extremely crunchy chips, drenched in vinager, watching the news and getting depressed about the worlds state.

"Mr Collins." 
*Oh shit that's me.*
*just run. You're fast enough.*
*no don't listen to him he's just wants to get home early,  it will be over before you know it.*
*Deep breath. *
"That's me." The anxious man called out wavering his shaking hand in the air.
"They're ready for you."
"OK thank you!"
*Oh God that overly clean smell.* It burnt through his nostrils making his breath deeper, longer, harsher.
*God it smells in here.*
"SHHHH! You can't just say that, learn some manners!"
"Sir, are you OK?" The nurse looked puzzled and a little frightened.
"Yes sorry my *friend* is extremely rude." His hand dangling in the air as he pointed at nothing, no one.
"Right."
He could tell the nurse was judging him. He had done it again. *You're not real. GET OUT OF MY HEAD!*
He clenched his fists, his nails gripping onto his palms, which were now drawing blood. His eyes twitched. The nurse backed away, her fragile, pasty hand clambering for the buzzer * for when the patients went a little too crazy*. She couldn't find it. Mr Collins grabbed a rotting chair and cracked its leg off, splinters of wood digging into his hands like a thousand tiny needles. *That's gonna hurt later.* But right now he didn't care. The anger he felt. The rage he wanted to express became too strong for him to take, it had taken over him. It had seduced him with the thought of relieving himself from this stress.
*Do it. Stab the little BITCH.*
*NO. Stop It RIGHT NOW.*
Before he new it he was being dragged away by security.

End of chpater.