Stunted
Elias Williams
Copyright © Elias W Williams 2010
Published at Smashwords
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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~Stunted
Now, I’m sure everyone has experienced stage fright, nervousness on the first day of school, uncertainty on how to confront a teacher or a colleague or a friend on an important matter. Social anxiety is an inevitable piece of being human, that reluctance to socialise, and even the most sociable of people have their moments. For some, however, associating themselves with people is one of the most dizzying of things that it feels almost like being on Death’s front porch.
Mind you, I’ve never actually been on Death’s doorstep, but in the midst of the social circle, I’ve felt so out of control, that I could imagine that’s what death would be like—and not the peaceful death that many people have—old and young when they pass in their sleep. Being in a crowded restaurant with five others was certainly no picnic. Let me set the scene for you: My father, his girlfriend (Jane), and I step into a classy restaurant with an unremarkable name. The walls were a wheat colour and the chair rail on the left side of the restaurant was a mossy green. There were dining areas on the left and right side of the entrance and a few stair steps past the podium leading into another dining area, which is where we sat, the long table in the very centre. We met two of my dad’s friends, Ferguson (who I’d met before) and his girlfriend. Little Stacey tagged along behind her Uncle Ferguson. She was seven years old and still surprisingly small. Her rosy cheeks and blue eyes were always enough to put a smile on my face.
Ferguson’s girlfriend was a stranger to me, but my first impression was a young, attractive woman who seemed very reserved, but kind. When we sat ourselves down, everyone instantly began conversing, leaving me and little Stacey to ourselves. I so desperately wanted to talk to the little seven-year-old, but I was left embarrassed and ashamed because I had gone completely mute out of nerves. What sort of twelve year old girl couldn’t speak to a little kid who just sat there, content with amusing herself with crayons?
“So, Elias,” Fergusson spoke while smiling humouredly at me.
“Wh-what? Yeah?” I stuttered back, voice small and weak, as I sunk slightly in my chair.
“Are you still beating the boys at reading?”
“What? I-I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
“When you were younger, you said you would always try to beat the boys at reading, don’t you remember?”
“I-I really don’t.” The conversation ended as soon as it started. I quickly grew anxious as the time past and drinks were served. To distract myself, I played with the napkin, trying to fold it a specific way, which led to me becoming strangely OCD about it. It had to be folded just right—
Fergusson’s girlfriend stood up with a panicked look on her face and ran towards the bathroom.
“Is she alright?” my dad asked, confused. Jane nodded her head at Fergusson in an equally confused and concerned manner.
“She has panic attacks at random,” he said with a shake of the head. I gazed down at my napkin again before excusing myself from the table. Hesitantly, I made my way to the bathroom. I slowly opened the door.
“Are you okay?” I asked, trying not to sound overly concerned. She was dabbing her eyes with a paper-towel, one hand gripping onto the edge of the sink. She nodded her head. I nodded back and entered a bathroom stall to avoid suspicion. I couldn’t blow my cover, now could I? I was too, uh, shy to let her know that I went to the restroom just to see if she was alright. I stayed there for a few moments before opening the stall to leave.
Shortly
after I got back to the table, they served the food. I had pizza
that was really greasy at certain points next to the crust. I ate
the greasy parts before moving onto the next part of the pizza. My
obsessive-compulsiveness rose as my anxiety did. I instantly began
fiddling with cloth napkin as soon as the pizza was done. I couldn’t
have my paper napkins folded, although I tried. I crumpled up the
dirty ones and threw them on the plate. I wanted no stains shown and
the napkin to be folded perfectly, but the burnt crumbs from the
bottom of the pizza left marks like charcoal on the back of the
napkin. Frustrated, I continued to fold it in many different ways
until I finally threw down the napkin. Getting rid of the OCD habit
cost me the rest of my sanity as fifteen different sounds flooded my
ears. I heard clinging of silverware, conversations going on at the
table behind me and among the people I sat with. I heard the
scuffling of shoes against the carpet and the movement of chairs. I
heard a child crying and oil crackling from the kitchen over six or
seven metres away and closed off. All at once.
No one seemed to
acknowledge Stacey or me. The adults continued to chat as I pressed
my hands against my ears. It didn’t offer the relief I was
searching for. Suddenly, a man began singing. He had a nice voice
that was suited for the opera, but I was too overwhelmed to think
about how beautiful it really was. I excused myself from the table
in a quiet, composed manner and took off with brisk strides towards
the bathroom. As I made my way to the restroom, I thought about
Fergusson’s girlfriend and her panic attack earlier. Suddenly, I
didn’t feel quite so alone.
I sat myself in a stall, feeling all anxiety wash away. I knew I would have to return to the table soon, but I could care less right now, even though I was irked by the Spanish-English tourist phrases being repeated on the bathroom radio. However, it still sounded so much better than the outside.