Anxiety, chapter 1

I was the outcast. The ignored. The minority of 10th graders with common sense, with a taste for good music, a very small amount of friends. Close to none. My name is Sam. Sam White. Yes, the plainest, most boring last name you could think of, but I guess it's my family's fault. It's always their fault. Especially my mom, for marrying that bastard Orion after my real dad, Jack, died of a heart attack.

Another day of school, of course... The way my day has started for nearly the last 11 miserable, monotonous years of my life. Go to school, get harassed, go home, get preached to. Naturally. I don't like the weeked because I'm forced to go to church, when I couldn't really give a fuck about christianity. I don't have my head far enough up my ass to believe in invisible people.

My favorite place in the world. The area right between the bus stop and my house, where me and Alex used to sit and smoke before he died. He died with a bullet lodged in his brain. The worst thing is, I could have stopped it from happening. I have the weight of his life on my shoulders and I've been completely miserable since he died - 3 months ago.

It was a dreary day. We came to the bus stop early and downed a few packs of reds. Feeling dizzy and sick, we stumbled to where the stop was. The fog misted nearly the entire area.

I accidently bumped into a black-coated figure, who immediately had taken the pistol he had in his coat pocket and pressed it to Alex's head. I don't know what exactly had happened. I remember it was so foggy the figure ran away from Alex's corpse and my own living, breathing body.

He had no idea there was two of us and ran. Ran away. I passed out afterwards, from shock, and that's all I remember besides sirens and crowds of people surrounding the yellow-ribbon secured death scene. I looked up from a little stretcher I was loaded on and saw a chalk figure of Alex's body. I passed out again, this time from the chain smoking and finally, was at a bed in the hospital, being treated for mental trauma.

Ever since, I've had a professionally diagnosed case of Paranoia and Anxiety. Which causes constant images, constant panic, and if I see the images, lack of breath and more passing out.

That's how I met them.

One day during break, I sat alone at a circular lunch table. Two boys my age sat across from me with their trays, waved, and went to their conversation. Then it happened - my eyes shifted to images of gore and blood and I went into shock. I remember nearly falling off my chair, gasping for breath, and one of the boys leaping out of his chair followed by the other ones. The response on their faces clearly explained they knew what was happening.

"Come on, I have em too, just breathe easy," The blonde one said as the brunette tried to balance me on my chair. I had a lump in my throat and I was crying like a madman, go figure. I couldn't think. Couldn't see. My eyes leaked tears like faucets and the blonde hugged me.

Hugged me? Wow. I thought I had cooties or somthing.

I stopped shaking and looked up. I started slowly regaining my breath and the blonde still sitting in front of me with a frown. My throat was burning and I tried to force a smile.
"Er... Yeah. We both get em too." The brunette nodded. I could see the terror in his eyes, was it really that bad?

The blonde didn't say a thing. He looked up at some laughing freshman and angrily told them to fuck off. I tried to supress a laugh but failed, in return I started a coughing fit. They offered an arm and I returned to my chair.
"I'm Billie Joe. You can call me Billie or some shit like that."
The blonde stayed silent and stared at his food. What the heck is up with him? I thought.
"Umm... He's Michael." the blonde hit Billie Joe in the ribs, causing him to playfully hit back.
"I'm MIKE. M-I-K-E." He made sure to spell it out.

Then it began. An endless conversation on religion, polotics, interests and music. I thought to myself, tugging at my cheap mesh wristband - I made friends. All because of somthing I got from losing friends.

Mike was a bass player in their band, Sweet Children. Billie was vocals and guitar. That night, after school, I stayed on the bus until the end of the line, which was the stop after mine. So I really wasn't that far from home, and I was happy they lived near me. After all, it's not like you live near your friends in somwhere as populated at Oakland.

"Come ooon, Sam," Mike grabbed my wrists and pulled me toward him and Billie Joe. I was uncomfortable being near them for some strange reason. I guess it's the shock of having friends. Mike closed his fingers around the unstable garage door and lifted it up, revealing a beat up old fender bass and a blue strat covered in personalized stickers.
"Nice setup," I said, commenting on the garage which was seconds from caving in. Billie snorted.
"It's the closest we can come to sound proof," He smiled, sticking his arm through a board-less opening in the wall.

I turned quickly to a crackling noise behind me. Mike plugged his bass into a really nice amplifier which was about two times his body size. He plucked the strings gently with his rugged, broken fingernails as Billie started opening a pack of cigarettes, looking the other way.

Poking his shoulder, I handed him a lighter. He looked suprised.
"I smoke too..." I tried to smile but I couldn't.
Billie cracked in laughter. He took a stick from the pack and smiled, showing it to me.
"Not this kind, I'm supposing,"

He's a druggie. Never saw that coming. The 'cigarette' was filled with a green substance and smelled rich and bitter. I shook my head as Mike jumped past me and took the pack and lighter. Typical for East bay kids, I guess.
Mike offered me one but I shook my head. He shrugged.
"Thas' alright," Billie said, choking down fumes from his own. He sat on Mike's amp and leaned against the wall which was warped outward. I never smoked pot and I didn't really plan on doing it anytime soon. So as soon as they passed out on the cement I left, pacing home to face my mother's angry face and to wash the fumes off my clothes.