Lost in his Imagination

Chapter One

"Mister Matthews, you're next; why are you here?"

I am startled by the sudden question that I nearly fall from my seat. I am in a local church hall, on my mothers' orders, surrounded by a dozen other troubled teens who need help living. I need help feeling; feeling anything would be good.

"I mean, I'm really here cos Mum wants her child alive, I guess." I get a few nods and a few snickers from a couple of boys sitting directly opposite me, but I can tell the instructor of the conversation isn't satisfied. She goes digging for more.

"What has triggered that decision?" I mean apart from having an abrupt temper and a mental health that won't stop declining, I don't know where to begin, so I don't.

"I don't know, ask her," I say, trying to make it obvious I don't want to continue being interrogated; a hint she receives and moves on to the next teenager. Majority of the people here are dressed in all black which makes me stand out, with my scruffy blonde hair and my 'don't care' attitude. The current victim of the interrogating starts spilling a life story of her struggle with depression and domestic violence...when everything becomes overwhelming; no reason to determine why. I run my hands through my hair, feeling the sweat drip down my unnaturally long fingers and into my palm. Not wanting to make a scene, I ask politely to go to the toilet and head for the exit door. It takes significant amount of control to keep it together; I must get to the car, I tell myself, and I make myself believe I can get there.

I place my hand on the passenger-side door, leaning my sweaty head against the cool metal of the door, taking deep breaths. I run my hands on the leather seats, feeling the fabric against my hand soothes me, in a way that I can't comprehend. Memories flashing through my head and thoughts I can't destroy; negativity poisoning every fragment of my brain. I want to feel, but not like this.

My head thumps as I roll over facing the left-over beer bottles that helped me get through the night, a decision I regret but not enough to stop. It's like this, every time I get overwhelmed; I break down and become completely unfunctional, down a couple of beers and pass out. I slowly sit up, but that didn't sit well with my stomach; running to the bathroom to let the contents of my stomach spill into the toilet. Taking a glance of myself in the mirror on my way out, I am a mess. I have dark circles around my eyes and vomit wrapped around my mouth; appealing I joke to myself.

The house is empty, and on a Saturday I'm not surprised. Mum works full time and likes the think she is the best mother, sending me to groups to 'talk about my issues' and sending me to a private school. The kitchen is dirty, no surprise there. Mum must have left in a hurry, I think to myself, so I walk up to the stereo and turn up the radio. When there is music on, my body just works. It knows what it is doing before my brain comprehends any tasks that need doing. Something isn't right and I feel it. I look around and find nothing out of place or any neighbors watching the 'messed up kid' participate in normal activities; nothing messed up about me at all.