A collection of short stories

Shape My Hands

     "Just listen to me," I yell at the person I thought was my friend.
    "But you don't understand. I have so much to do and you just made a decision on your own, and I was busy in the athletic trainers," he responded, sitting in the middle of his bedroom with his legs crossed and his laptop open. Last year Trey moved in next door to me from Maryland and although he is a year older than me, we are in a lot of the same classes. Mrs. Connolly, my history teacher, knew that Trey and I were neighbours so of course that meant that we were always paired together when it came to class projects. This also meant that unfortunately I would have to deal with his unreliable yet controlling personality and so now we have less than a week left to finish our final project that we were given more than two months ago.
     "I get it Trey, but you have to understand that, one I was in the trainers too, and two I also have homework to do for other classes and in order to at least get us started, which we were supposed to do together at six but you never showed up, I made an executive decision that the focus of our project will be on World War two and the role the media played in it --"
     "But you just made a decision without my input --"
     "And we were supposed to meet tonight at six so I could get your input, and I waited for thirty minutes and you still didn't show up so I  --"
     "Leave." Is everything he says.
     "Trey you have to listen to me --"
     "Leave."
     "Trey just listen to me," I say, getting louder and increasingly more upset at him. "You have too often undermined my passion for history and this project and now you're telling me to leave without even listening to me," I try to counter.
     "Just leave. Get out of my house."
    So I left. I left before I said something I didn't mean. I left before I hit him. I left before he could say anything else, because I didn't want to listen. For months I have listened to him talk about how he was stressed about the college application process, and the troubles he had with his girlfriend, and the stress of his classes. Throughout that time, though I have never asked him to listen to me, but now that I want him to he won't, so I won't let him talk to me.
    Running down the stairs I focus all my anger onto the bang my feet make when colliding with each step, because as the vein in my forehead becomes increasingly more visible, I become increasingly more upset.
    I run into my room and slam the door shut with my back, slowly sliding down towards the floor and grabbing my knees. What did I do wrong? My periwinkle painted bedroom and stained white duvet begin to mesh into a haze making my head topple into my lap to try and hide my pain. What did I do wrong? As the events of the last ten minutes begin to replay in my head, my eyes shoot open and stare straight at the dark hardwood flooring. What did I do wrong? I only wanted to help. The last thought slaps me in the face making me choke on my breath and begin to hyperventilate.

     Before I have a full on panic attack I remember what my therapist told me to do. Getting up and walking over to my closet, I sit on the shoe shelf and position my body so my legs lay straight and my feet hit the other wall of the closet. One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Breathe. Four—
     You made him mad. "No!"
     My scream rings throughout my room sending my emotions into the blender of reality. I want to swallow them back up but every time I try I get slapped in the face again. Why didn't you just wait? I grab my head with my nails digging into my parietal lobe to try and stop the thoughts from processing. I grab my mouth to keep a single sound from falling out. Why did you do it? He didn't deserve it.
     "Why!" that's it, my bodies done fighting, so I shoot up, throw my hands up and curing myself out.
     "What did I do wrong?"
    "Why did I trust him?"
    All these internal thoughts burst from inside me like a cannon. I don't feel like myself anymore but at the same point I feel so me. Do I really know who I am?