Worried: A Scomiche Short Story

Part 6: The Storm Begins

Scott's sudden departure made Mitch felt cold and uneasy once again; however, this time his discomfort only festered and grew. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees in an effort to, quite literally, hold himself together. He hoped the tight pressure and slight sting of his nails digging into his forearms would both keep him present and still the tremble starting to ripple out from his core.

He wanted nothing more than to squeeze and condense every little thing he was feeling until it was so small that it could be shut back into the little black box that it belonged in and be shoved to an abandoned corner of his mind. He would have given anything for his racing thoughts to be tied up in to a tight little package and done away with, even if only until the end of this arrangement session he was trapped in the middle of.

He'd had these days before but they usually never affected the thing he loved more than anything else: making music. It frustrated him beyond belief because he should be over there at the piano with the others. He should be the one pitching ideas for intricate harmonies. He should be using his finely tuned ear to help make this cover great. But he wasn't. He was stuck here, frozen in place on this couch. Music was everything to him; it was his job, his means of expression, practically his lifeblood. Mitch felt like it had been wrongfully stolen out from under him, and that's what terrified him more than anything.

This scary realization washed over him again and again like the waves that beat down on beautiful beaches during wicked storms. I can't do what I love. I can't do it. Oh my god I can't do it. It was as if Mitch had been clinging the feeble stability that Scott provided, but now that his life raft was gone, he was truly drowning and feeling what little progress towards peace he'd made slip through his fingertips.

As the waves of anxiety continued to escalate at an alarming rate, Mitch felt as if he was only getting pulled further and further beneath the surface. The already dim lighting in the room was getting too bright for him to keep his eyes open any longer. Why is everything so painfully bright? The lively noise from the rest of the band, no matter how incredible, was too loud and felt like sharp daggers stabbing through his ears directly into his brain. Why is everything so painfully loud?

And then suddenly, everything stopped and went numb. The energy within Mitch that was once a nagging buzz had climbed to a dull roar until it simply just turned in deafening white noise. Mitch's vision narrowed sharply and his breaths turned erratic. Until this point, he had been caught miserable but silent struggle, but now his brain and his mouth began to work in disjointed thoughts and exclamations.

"I," started Mitch, I need...I need, "Scott!"

His cheeks were tinged a deep shade of crimson and his breath grew ever more erratic when everyone's startled expression came to settle upon him. Mitch didn't know exactly what he'd said or if he'd even said anything intelligible at all, but he knew with sudden clarity, that he need out and now. So without waiting for any well meaning questions or even any sort of acknowledgement, he leapt off the couch as hot tears sprang to his downcast eyes, and his legs propelled him on autopilot straight out of the room. 

A/N: Bit of a cliffhanger for you but I wanted to update...Thoughts?