The Fence || h. s.

14 || A Minor Setback

My therapist once told me that in order to get better, things may have to go downhill first. Not only because of the inevitable detoxing phase, when you put an end to your high and finally begin to suffer the repercussions of your foolish actions, but also because sometimes, we need to make mistakes so we can learn from them.

She did forget to warn me that getting better once doesn't mean that I would never hit that rock bottom again… Which I soon experienced painfully on my own skin on a Friday morning, three days after the ill-fated interview.

Admittedly, I've already been feeling on edge ever since the disaster of my reunion with my mother. It quickly became apparent that her efforts to put me back in the spotlight were successful, since my official social media profiles literally blew up after the episode's airing. Succumbing to the pressure of my mother's PR team, I posted a short update the day after, informing everyone how excited I am to begin my work for the charity foundation. The tweet quickly gained thousands of likes, which should have made me feel appreciated, and yet, it only served to fuel my anxiety even more.

Anxiety, insecurity, addiction—the unholy trinity of my existence.

It all brings me to this morning and my lazy self getting up after yet another sleepless night, determined to go back to my safe routine of working out, jogging, and meeting H in the evenings. However, all my plans are once again ruined by the arrival of my former PR team member, whom I haven't seen in years. To his defense, he keeps our conversation short, leaving me with a list of upcoming events that I am scheduled to attend in the upcoming weeks.

When he finally leaves, the rest of the morning passes in surprising normalcy, though I should have expected that it is merely the calm before a storm.

The premonition of doom comes an hour later, in the form of my mother once again blowing up my phone. She has called me, multiple times in fact, throughout the last few days, but I never answered. In my eyes, she did not deserve to talk to me after the shit she had pulled.

Yes, she did manage to blackmail me into doing her PR bullshit, but I could still retain what's left of my dignity and ignore her, preferably forever. At this point, it was the only thing I could do to spite her. Now feeling more convinced of being in the right, I switch off my phone, then throw it underneath my pillow where it rests unseen and less likely to tempt me with the idea of scrolling through twitter.

It's about two hours later when the sound of the doorbell disturbs my afternoon ritual of watching ER reruns. Instantly, I am even more annoyed. No one gets in the middle of my young George Clooney time—ever. This show was the shit, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. They simply don't make medical dramas like this anymore.

Munching on my juicy watermelon slice, I ignore the sound. But then it comes back, again, and again, until someone holds the button causing a continuous buzzing to echo through the air.

"Oh, dear god!" I yell out, stomping over to the front door. Whoever's on the other side, is surely getting it. I have reached the brink of my patience, and was now far, far beyond it.

But, as I snatch the door open to reveal a puffy-eyed Sally, her cheeks covered with streaks of smudged mascara, all my annoyance vanishes in an instant.

"Sally?! What happened? Why are you crying?" I bombard her with questions, pressing her trembling body against mine. My mind automatically flies to the natural conclusion—it has to be Baker. "Is it him? Did the bastard try to approach you?!"

I pull her into the house, shutting the door behind us with a loud bang. She flinches, the sound being the catalyst for more sobbing, hiccuping, and unintelligible blabber.