Under Pressure - Septiplier

Chapter Nine

There's a polite babble of conversation in his ears. Mark isn't paying attention; his eyes are on the book before him. The pages are worn, and the spine crinkles with each adjustment of his hands and every page turn. He'd seen his dad reading it when he was younger, but his parents wouldn't allow him to read Lord of the Rings until this year. It's finally fifth grade, he's finally ten, and finally old enough to read it. Mark uses his thumb and forefinger to flip the top right corner pages over and over again, a repetitive flitting flutter. He reaches out and presses on his clicker, touching the familiar cool, smooth surface and the memorized dividing line of the top button and the bottom piece.

Click.

"We've had this conversation with every one of his teachers before the school year starts up because Mark has severe anxiety. He's incredibly sensitive to... everything, really. If things start moving too fast, things can go south quick for him, and he'll have a panic attack," his father explains to the teacher.

"Oh? What sort of situations should I be looking out for?" the woman asks, brows lifting. She glances over at the incumbent fifth-grader, legs curled up in his chair, arms wrapped around them, chin on his knees, book in his hands.

"Well, the louder situations. In the past, he's had some issues with lunch and recess. Umm... when you do group activities in class. Essentially, if a lot is happening, he gets overwhelmed," his father tries to explain, adjusting his glasses and brushing back his hair absentmindedly.

"Alright, so I need to keep an eye on him in faster-paced situations. How do I... slow him down?" she questions.

Click.

She glances over, knitting her brows for a moment before she concentrates back on his dad.

"His therapist has been working with him on it for quite some time now, and they've found that grounding questions can help. For example, asking if he sees anything red. Or can he find a square object? Something visual and still."

Click.

The teacher's lips turn into an almost imperceptible frown for a split second at the sound, and she adjusts herself in her seat, taking a measured sip of water. Mark sees the response and hope wilters in his chest. Another school year of the teacher not understanding and getting irritated with him for things he can't control. He slowly puts the clicker in his pocket, already feeling less stable. The anchor has been reeled in and put away, leaving him adrift. His hands begin to quiver, and he sets down the book before he damages it in some way.

"Dad," he manages out, his voice a paltry whisper as his mind whirls. Every year, new people who don't understand, new people who judge him, new people who think he's weird. The soft conversation stops, but Mark doesn't notice. He blinks, drawing in a shuddering breath. He tries to breathe slowly, but they always kick at the end, a rush that leaves him shaken and ravaged, trying to recover for the next one.

"Mark, look at me, kiddo," his father says, suddenly before him, dark eyes meeting his own. Mark tries to draw in a breath, and it hurts, tears welling up in his eyes. His dad gently holds the boy's shaking hands, kneeling down to his level.

"Find something green," the man orders gently, voice delicately firm. Mark shreds his eyes away from his father, shooting jerking glances throughout the classroom.

"Plant, on w-window," he manages between gasping breaths and blurring vision from tears.

"Good, now find something red," his father directs, voice and gaze calm. His parents are used to it by now. They're better at hiding the sadness and fear that fills them each time they see their son like this. Mark hiccups and scans the room, hands clenching his father tightly. He murmurs an answer, and they run through a few more colors and shapes before Mark entirely stops panicking. The moment of stillness breaks when his father glances up to the teacher off to the side.

Mark closes his eyes, feeling a surge of shame and nausea roll over him. He lets out a deep breath of defeat and embarrassment, leaning forward and hugging his dad. The kid buries his face into the crook of his father's neck, moving his arms to hug him tightly. He doesn't want to look up and see that this woman saw him collapse and devolve into a broken person. He doesn't want to be seen that way.

The silence hurts his ears, pounding into them violently.

"Why didn't you use your clicker, son?" his dad asks quietly, voice a gentle murmur that sends ripples through the silence pooling in the room.

"S-she d-didn't like it," Mark manages to whisper into the crook of his father's neck. He hates his life, this miserable reality. He sees spots slowly sway across the back of his pinched eyelids. At least they aren't real. Before his dad can say something, the teacher speaks up, voice tentative.

"Is the clicker the thing he was pressing on?" she asks. He feels his dad's chin press down a bit before rising again- a terse nod.

"Oh... I didn't know, I thought it was one of those fidget toys every kid seems to have these days. I'm sorry, Mark," she apologizes. The boy stills as she speaks directly to him. Neither adult has really acknowledged him since the standard introductions at the beginning of the meeting.

"And I won't make you stop using the clicker during class- if you need it. I want to make sure you're as comfortable as possible," the young woman finishes. Mark tucks down his chin a bit, still hiding in his father's arms, but he feels reassured by the words. He gives a slight nod, sniffling and extracting a hand to smear away a few tears.

"On another note, are you reading Lord of the Rings?" she asks, wanting to make the child more comfortable. Mark smiles bashfully against the crook of his dad's neck, nodding.

"That's really advanced for a kid your age. I'm impressed. Who's your favorite character? I like Legolas," she questions curiously, smiling at the boy, even if he can't see. Mark stirs a bit more, shifting and pulling away from his dad a bit to rest his chin on the man's shoulder, still hiding, but not as intensely. He feels his father run his hand over his back soothingly and focuses on his breathing for a moment.

"Gimli is funny," he says, voice breathy but just loud enough for her to hear.

"I like their competition. Tolkien does an excellent job with their character development together," she says with a soft smile. Mark nods after thinking about it for a moment.

"I think Legolas should've won the competition at Helm's Deep, though. He moves so much faster than Gimli," he giggles. They chat for a bit before the adult's finish up business. Mark reads some more and occasionally uses his clicker, worry-free.