The Thunderstorm

No matter how old he gets, the storms always terrify him. It isn't just the thunder, it's the lightning when it lights up the sky. It's the sounds that accompany it that drown out his sense of the world. It doesn't matter what he does, he'll still hear the thunder crack, he'll still see the flash. He hates storms, he fucking hates them. He can't think when they happen, and they make him feel so... Helpless. 

When he hears the first rumble, he freezes and watches as the lights flicker in horror. His eyes widen as he searches the room, looking for somewhere to hide. When thunder strikes again he can feel his body begin to shut down. Without a plan, he takes off to his room, running as fast as he can.

He can't get there fast enough, a feeling of dread urging him to go faster, nearly colliding with the door when he finally reaches it. Max darts into his room, nearly tripping over nothing and flinging himself under his blanket, hoping, praying that it will bring some sort of relief.

He can hear voices traveling down the hallway towards his room. They're angry, they're shouting, and they're mingling with the sounds of the storm. Outside, he can hear scratches on his window, long, deep scratches. He thinks it might just be the storm, or he hopes it is.

When the voices reach his door they stop, and whispers start, emerging from the window almost like it's slithering through.

"Max, we won't hurt you, we promise."

"Maaaax, let us innn."

The whispers promise so much, that if he'll just open the window, it'll all stop.

"It'll be over soon."

It's like a nail on a chalkboard, and it's slow, constant. The voice is high pitched and broken.

The yelling from the door continues once more. All the people he can't make himself call friends or family.

"GROW UP YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!"

Max can't breathe, he can't hear it again.

He opens his eyes from under the blanket, and he can't see anything until lightning fills the room, and then all he can see is a shadow at the window.

"I'm going to fucking kill you." It's from his door, it's not yelling, but it's harsh. He has definitely heard it before, and many times.

"What have you done, Max?" It's his mother. She's sad, crying. She hates him.

"You don't deserve-"

The window shatters, and he can't hear what was being said anymore. His body is flung against the wall and he can feel the glass pierce his skin. The blanket is gone, so he can nearly see the creature when he lifts his head.

He looks, and he can't move, as it lowers its scarred face, and reaches out with a branch for an arm－­

He can't fucking breathe, his limbs are tangled, he's sobbing, and he can't make himself stop. He can feel his chest heaving, and he's drenched in sweat. He can hear the rain outside his tent. He can feel, but he can't think, he can't stop. It doesn't matter that it isn't the first time he has had that dream, that nightmare.

He wants David, or some other camp counselor, but he knows that if he bothered them that they wouldn't care. They wouldn't do it for him. He knows that it would be so nice to hear them, to see another person, but it doesn't matter. He's Max, the troublemaker, and he doesn't deserve it anyway. When he hears the thunder, this time it's real, and he knows he'll never get back to sleep.

He grabs his bear and buries his face into its fur, just like every other time. It'll be over eventually, he tells himself, as more tears stream down his face. He's scared, he's so fucking scared.