Saving Laurel

61. Dad

Wes Thompson

I've got another appointment with my doctor in a few days, my mom wants to switch my medication and she's right. Somethings gotta give and I'd rather it not be me.

My dad and I have been watching a movie, baseball themed of course. It's fine, I can basically summarize the movie without really having to pay attention which is exactly what I need because I'm trying not to let out all my tics. Harder said then done when they seem to increase easily these days.

Or if I think about Laurel. Because then I think about Sawyer and the other day.

And that's something I don't want to think about. Ever. Again.

But that's not how the brain works. Naturally it's filling my thoughts, my tics back logging and my comfort level decreasing until I can't stand it anymore.  Shoving myself off the couch I head for the stairs, not answering my dad as he asks "everything okay bud?" because I'm certain I'll tic if I say something.

I wait until I push my door shut behind me before I let down my guard slightly. I'm not going to let myself completely tic out, keeping the loud ones in for the time being but it feels good to let the quiet ones go.

Taking a seat on my bed, I don't keep track as I jerk and twitch and twist around, muffling the yelling as much as I can. Sometimes I just can't stop them.

And the whole time I just keep telling myself tomorrow. Tomorrow I get to go home.

"Wes buddy?" My dad knocks on my door but he doesn't wait for me to answer and as the door swings open I'm mid tic.

"Sorry." I apologize instantly, trying to reel them back in but now that I started letting them out they don't want to be suppressed.

I cycle through my normal ones as my dad says "you don't have to be sorry".

I don't know where it comes from, I swear. But all of a sudden in the most sarcastic tone I've ever had I say "don't I?".

"What?" My dad asks at the same time I apologize again.

What is wrong with me? Who am I? My head jerks back hard and I sniff before I shout and then slap myself in the chest.

"No Wes, what do you mean?" His eyebrows are knit together, his facial hair trimmed neatly, his hand still on the doorknob just incase he needs to escape when my tics start getting worse.

I can't look at him but just before I shift my gaze to the carpeted floor I can see confusion. Which confuses me. It's not like he's been particular subtle about his dislike for all that I am.

"You hate me." Saying the words out loud hurt more than I expected.

"No I don't. Why would you ever think that?"

My head jerks to the side twice and I catch another cuss word about to fly out of my mouth and muffle it into a grunt.

"Well then you hate my tics and my OCD and the fact that I get distracted easy." I point out.

He hasn't seen me tic this much in a long time.

"Wes bud, I love you."

But tears have rushed to my eyes, an ache in my chest opening up like a fresh wound.

"Do you th-fuck off- think I like being (whistle) like this?" I sound defeated even to my own ears. "I hate this." Shoulder, neck, inhale, nose. "I heard you." I confess, m  I got as well throw this out too, I seem to be on a roll. "On the phone (chest), you have a girlfriend."

My head jerks back and I sniff, yelling out a cuss word after.

He lets out a sigh. The kind that mean I've hit the nail on the head but I'm a kid so I'm not going to understand why he did what he did. But I do. I mean I heard him say it. I'm a lot to handle.