Spanish Anxiety

A/N: This is dedicated to everyone out there with mental health issues, my aunt is a qualified mental health nurse and has an Instagram page called @Insightology, she also has Youtube videos where she gives advice and tips about mental health issues. So I recommend you check it out. ☺

This is Coco!

Story:

I don’t really like England, she’s too temperamental. Sometimes, she’s happy and bright, but most of the time she’s dull and crying for days with no end. Unlike my Spain, he’s jovial and glows with colour and culture. I miss him so. He is the home of my friends and family. 

My father’s decision to come to England and her boiling summers and freezing winters after Mama died, was one of his worst. 
It was so bad even my own mind tortures me for being here every single day. I once had to sit down on a step beside the horrid statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus and before my very eyes my arms began turning to stone as if I was not sitting beside Eros but Medusa and she was punishing me for disliking her appearance. I started hyperventilating as my body began to feel numb. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t call for help. I couldn’t scream. But then Papa came running out of GAP and realised I was having another panic attack and Medusa was chased away, then my skin slowly returned to its olive tone and the grey faded away. I always feared that if Papa hadn’t come to check on my as he browsed through the shop to find himself a new shirt, I would have turned into a statue and be displayed by Eros for tourists to come and take pictures of. 

I hear a knock at the door. I am afraid. It could be a murderer. It could be the police. It could be a drug dealer. It could be a drunk. It could be a murderous drunk drug dealer posing as the police. Papa is having a bath. He won’t be able to answer the door. I place a bookmark in my book and then put it down on my bedside table then climb out of bed then clamber down the stairs and slowly approach the front door. 

“Who is it?” I squeak. 
Louder you buffoon, he’ll think you’re afraid of him and then he’ll have more fun when he kills you. 
“Delivery,” says a deep masculine voice. I sigh, no murderer would say delivery they would say ‘it’s the postman’. I open the door. A large man holding a small package, “Delivery for Miss Coco Basurto.” He pronounced my name correctly; he's most probably a foreigner like me. 

"Gracias Señor," I mutter. 

He smiles at me "De nada!" he says cheerfully as he passes it to me then walks away. I close the door then lock it, then I routinely check it twice making sure I did actually lock it. As I walk away from the door I think to myself ‘Did I lock the door?’ and then return to check it again. It’s locked. I release an imprisoned breath then I take the package into the living room. 

At the back of my mind, I'm afraid of the possibilities that whatever was inside the box could be dangerous. However, when I looked at the handwriting on the label, it was somewhat familiar but I couldn't quite place it. I want to wait for Papa to open the box, however, I knew if I waited to open it, my anxiety will get worse as I ponder what is inside. I sigh then I locate some scissors then unseal the package only to find an obsequio. A present. Decorated by a ribbon in the colours of the Spanish flag. I open it to find a scrapbook. I open the book to find my name inscribed in calligraphy and a small letter folded beneath it.