Panic Station

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Shuffling down the book isle of Tesco, I noticed how very few stood out. Seriously, only about three lept off of the book case and danced in front of my eyes, begging for me to read them. Okay ... Maybe not literally, but in my mind, they might as well have.

Taking the three off of their places on the shelf, I slid down to the floor and lay them in front of me, attempting to chose just one. I hated how my mum always told me that I was only allowed one, I mean, who only picks one book? Certainly not an eighteen year old outcast with social anxiety and who's best friends are his own parents ...

The longer I stared down at the books, the more enticed I was to read all three. They weren't in a series or anything, I just felt that my broken world wouldn't be complete unless every word in those books were read with my own eyes and filtered delicately into my mind, increasing my knowledge of the written world. (After all, it's the only world where I seem to belong.)

The first and left hand one was an adventure novel, starring some ruthless treasure hunter with a passion for slashing anyone or anything that had the audacity to step in his way. Which, to judge it based upon the front cover, (which, side note, you should never do, as you're likely to be wrong.) was everyone. 

The second and middle one lay slightly askew on the cool tiled floor, so I reached carefully over my lap to straighten it. (what I wouldn't do to not have OCD as well as every other damned thing.) This one seemed to me like the kind of book which caused deep thought and probably contained several unanswered questions where the author either forgot the side plot so left it open, or did it deliberately, so that it's open for interpretation, changing the ending according to the reader. One of the things I loved most about that type of book, was that if I read it, then handed it to my mum to read, she'd come up with a different ending, purely because of the way the human mind interprets certain things. 

Shame I can't sound that intelligent to anyone but myself.

My eyes then drifted over to the last, and far less extravagant-looking one. It's cover was black and  the title, a crisp white. I guessed by the scratches that it was meant to look as though it had been etched on my a knife or other sharp utensil, and that sparked my imagination. As well as the actual title of course, I mean, it obviously wouldn't have created that 'wanting to read' feeling had it looked this sinister but called something like 'Daisy found a Pretty pebble'. Nope, the book was called 'Her Silence' which may have had something to do with why I'd latched onto it. 

Upon flipping it over and reading the blurb, my mind had been made up almost instantly. 'Her Silence' was about a young girl, (it had said late teens, so I'm guessing maybe seventeen or eighteen?) who was diagnosed with Social Anxiety Disorder at eleven. She had no friends except for her mum with whom she lived with, and spoke very few words to anyone.

It was almost exactly me. 

Except, of course, it wans't. It was a fictional girl with a fictional disorder suffering in her very fictional life. 

Just as I was about to stand back up and return the other two to their places on the wooden shelf, a slight shadow fell over my slumped, lanky form. Here it comes; the anxiety. The fear. The sweaty palms and increased heart rate. Oh, I hated people ... Especially talking to them.

Glancing up, I found myself looking into the smiling face of a shop employee. She had one of those smiles that bore her pearly white teeth, and it was actually rather intimidating. (Not only because of my social retardation, but literally, terrifying!) She bent down toward me and began speaking in a tone fit for addressing a small child. 

"Hello, young man. May I help you find a book?" I opened my mouth to respond with a polite 'no', nothing too difficult, but only silence ensued. Daring another glance up, her smile was still in place, but her eyes blinked several times, awaiting an answer. When still nothing came, and I'd sat opening and closing my mouth in an attempt at a reply for a few long seconds, she tried again. "It's okay, there isn't any need to be shy." Shy? I wasn't exactly shy, I was just physically unable to reply. So ... You could say I was extremely shy? Or super shy? 

"Phil? Are you alright?" My mum's voice called out from the end of the isle. Thank god! I turned my head to face her and shook it, ignoring how everything seemed fuzzy because I had been about to cry. I remained sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes staring down through my ebony fringe at the books that still lay before me, as she walked toward us, smiling serenely at the woman hovering over me. 

"Are you his mother?" The employee asked, glancing down at me, then back up at my mum, who nodded but pursed her lips as her eyes drifted down to me. I noted the knowing in them. She knew I'd not said anything, she could see the tears in my eyes and it was like she saw how I'd failed at even uttering a sound.

That was the only thing I didn't like about my mum, she too often made me feel as though it were my fault I didn't talk. Which, might I add, she knew it wasn't. 

"Is everything okay?" She finally asked, reaching out a hand to stroke my hair, causing me to feel like a helpless little child ... Not varying from normal then really. 

"Oh yes, of course! I was just offering your son a hand with finding a book." She then let out a tinkling laugh, I involuntarily shuddered, wanting nothing more than to be out of that situation, for I knew what was coming next ... "I had no idea he was so shy, how old is he? Sixteen?" She smiled down at me, and I couldn't help but feel oddly offended. But I couldn't hold eye contact for long, so dropped my gaze back to the books, picked 'Her Silence' up in one hand, then the other two in my other. "I can take those if you want?" Suddenly, I froze. My whole body just tensed up for a few seconds before I shuffled behind my mum to hide. I tried to ignore my mum's defeated sigh.

"Phil's actually eighteen, and has a form social anxiety disorder, it prevents him from being able to speak freely, and uh ... As you can see, makes him come across as pretty shy." It was a rehearsed speech, I'd heard her say it at least a few dozen times. Always the same, 'he has social anxiety' 'can't speak freely' 'comes across as shy'. She tries, bless her, and I love her for it, honestly I do, but sometimes, I wish she would just say that I was shy, and spare me the embarrassment stemmed from the pitiful looks that I never fail to receive after her tale. 

"Oh!" The woman exclaimed, silencing herself by putting a perfectly maincured hand over her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" Of course she is, of course she's sorry. Everyone is always 'so sorry', but really, what are they sorry about? Me having it, or my mum having me having it? Personally, I'm opting for the latter, it's more likely.

I tugged on my mum's shirt sleeve, my silent plea to leave, which she understood perfectly, acknowledging it with a nod. 

"Well, it was nice speaking to you, and thank you for your help." Not that she did anything, I decided against mentioning that though as we turned to walk away. 

"It's okay, Phil." Mum said softly, putting an arm around me and rubbing my upper arm comfortingly. 

She was wrong.