Worried: A Scomiche Short Story

Part 1: The "Bad" Days

 It was just one of those days. The weight of the world sat on his shoulder and he could hardly keep up with his own racing thoughts. It was almost as if he was in his own little bubble looking out at a distorted view of the world as it quickly passed by him, but within his bubble, things moved painstakingly slow as he tried to make sense of it all. It was rather disorienting actually, and that feeling only added to his discomfort.

And it physically hurt too.

The lights were just a little too bright for his eyes. The noise just a little too sharp for his ears. The tension strung tight throughout his body made his neck and back absolutely ache. The churning of his nervous stomach bubbled painfully in his abdomen. His racing thoughts had created a dull throb below the surface of his temples. Even the tips of his fingers felt strange as a pins and needles sensation fell over them. In all honesty, days like this sucked.

Mitch just had these days from time to time. Sure, the other members of the band got stressed or tired, but they never seemed to have days quite like this. He learned early on that his "bad days" had no particular pattern to them, and that given the hectic nature of his life and career they were just bound to happen, often at the worst of times.

He had found that it exhausted him further to try and fight with the anxiety to complete a task, and typically chose instead to sit quietly with his discomfort, take a few big deep breaths, and try find an inner state of peace whenever he could. He didn't like to ask for help very often because he hated feeling like a burden, though everyone always assured him otherwise, and he was known for being stubborn after all. Typically he could handle it alright on his own, but unfortunately today that just didn't seem to be the case.