Social Anxiety Disorder. That’s what the psychiatrists said it was. I didn’t believe them. I didn’t need to believe them, because I knew what I had. I’ve always had it.
I don’t remember much from when I was little. Mostly just a general feeling of uncertainty, like I had no sense of self growing up. The pieces I do remember are vivid though. Once, I walked into a classroom filled with people I had never met before, and my condition struck me as a massive wave. I was paralyzed, barely cognizant of my surroundings. Someone walked me to my desk; I hadn’t realized, not even after the visions stopped. My parents, bless their souls, tried their best to help me in every way possible. Doctor visits, brain scans, psychological wellness exams, the whole nine yards. Nobody ever figured it out. How could they? Nothing like it had ever existed before. It shouldn’t be possible. I shouldn’t be possible.
And yet here I am, 30 years later. Sitting alone in an office filled with whatever bobbles and curios people saw fit to give to me, mostly crystals or semiprecious gemstones and the like. Thought to harness good energy. It’s all bullshit of course, but whatever helps the weird people that walk in my door. Rarely do I get the Joes and Janes walking down the street; most of them think me a quack, and I don’t blame them. What I have really does seem otherworldly.
A knock at the door shakes me from my ruminating. I swing my chair around, facing the wall behind me.
“Come in,” I say, shutting my eyes.
The door opens and closes.
“Hey, sorry. I don’t have an appointment, but your sign says you take walk-ins?”
A woman. Probably early 20s.
“Yes, I do. Have a seat at the chair.”
“Uh, ok.” The chair scrapes along the ground as she pulls it back and takes a seat.
Silence.
“So, uh. You’re like, a holistic doctor, right? But for therapy or something like that?”
“Yes, indeed I am. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on in your life?”
“Well,” she says, her voice skeptical and questioning. “I’ve been going through some things lately. My… my mother died a few weeks ago, and my girlfriend said she couldn’t handle me how I was and left. It’s been a rough month, and I kind of just wanted to talk about it.” The words came out mostly smoothly. Her voice didn’t shake or waver. She’s said this before.
“Hm. Let’s do an exercise,” I reply. “I want you to close your eyes and count to 20. While you’re counting, focus on your breathing.”
Silence. I wait, until I hear her sigh. Her breathing comes out rhythmically, in and out. Only now do I turn and face her, eyes open.
I’m sitting in the rain at the bus stop, still staring down the dark road. It’s been an hour and 40 minutes, and there’s no sign of one coming. They were supposed to stop at 10 on weekends, there should have been one by now. I’ve called mom, dad, even my bro and no one answered. No less than four unread texts in each of their inboxes. I curl up. They’ve forgotten me again. I’m no one to them, not worth remembering, not worth thinking about. I’m just a burden to them. Of course they would forget me. I burst into tears, thankful for the rain. Why am I always alone?! Why?!
The memory stops, and I’m in the office. The girl in front of me still has her eyes closed. Two ear piercings on her left ear, a grayscaled flannel with black arm sleeves. Hair tied back into a pony tail. No makeup, no lipstick, just a normal person. Yet behind that I know what she feels, because I’ve felt it, as vividly as I feel this moment now. I don’t even know her name, and yet I know everything about her.
I focus on my breathing along with her, filing her memory away into a vault. When she opens her eyes, I smile. “Ready to begin?”
This was great! I really like the way the whole thing reads, mechanically and in terms of structure. The sentences have a rhythm to them, and there’s a buildup to the reveal of “this is his power, and this is how he uses it to help people” that keeps you reading.
I also like how you created a character who’s mature and experienced with their power, because you’re answering questions like “How would someone grow up if they had this power?” “How would people treat them?” “Can they use it for anything useful?”, and it’s more interesting than just “How would it feel to have this power?”.
My favorite part, though, is how the narrator only gives a superficial description of the woman at first. And, only after experiencing her most painful memory, does he actually give a detailed description—as if he doesn’t really look at people until he’s looked into them. I’m not sure what that says about his character, but I feel like it makes a lot of sense.
Man I’m not even gonna lie to you, I didn’t really intend to show anything! I was just writing to write, got inspired by the prompt. I appreciate the kind words though, and I’ll definitely keep your comments in mind.
Yep! I’m assuming this place was modeled after the similarly named subreddit, in which case yes, stories should be made as parent level responses under the prompt itself (unless it’s an old prompt buried deep)
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