𝙎𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙣𝙚

T/W: anxiety attack

The next day, I find myself tentatively making my way up the driveway of Alex's house.

As I suspected, his house is pretty big. Through the way he dresses and the things he likes to flex on his Snapchat story to look cool and gain more attention, it's not that hard to guess that he has money. And a lot of it at that.

I'm not sure how many people think it looks cool, though. I sure don't; I just think he's making a fool of himself. I'm always resisting the urge to shout 'NO ONE CARES THAT YOU'RE RICH, SHUT THE FUCK UP!'

The front garden is tidy, and the grass looks as though they had cut it recently. Different plants and trees surround the expanse of the garden. Two large garages are sticking out the front. I picture a Lamborghini or an Aston Martin parked inside one of them. In contrast, I imagine an old, classical car that they hadn't touched in a while and they had bought to show off parked in the other.

It's a three-storey mansion-type house painted a cream colour and many windows freshly washed, causing them to glisten in the sun. As I've said, it's massive. The driveway in itself is a statement. One of the upper floor windows has a dark red coloured curtain pulled across it with a middle finger light placed on the windowsill. I guess that's Alex's room.

I'm surprised he's even letting me come to his house after yesterday. On my way here, I was expecting a call from him, paired with harsh words telling me that I shouldn't come today. I wouldn't have been surprised. I kind of wanted it to happen. But I'm here now. I need the grades, I remind myself.

When I reach the doorstep, I wipe the sweat from my hands on my thighs and try to calm my nerves before I press the bell. I would say I don't know why I'm so nervous, but I do. I didn't take my anxiety meds due to forgetfulness, and when I do that, every single little thing feels like the end of the world for me. Plus I'm entering a could-be sociopath's house. Today may be the day I get murdered, who knows.

The doorbell makes the exact sound you'd picture a doorbell to sound like in a posh house. I step back down a step and wait. After waiting for a few minutes, I decide to press the doorbell again, but before I can, the door swings open to reveal Alex.

The first thing I notice is a bluish-purple bruise under his eye.

"Got no patience, have you?" is the first thing he asks. I shrug and I am about to tell him he was taking a while to open the door, but he cuts me off before a syllable can even exit my mouth. "Whatever, come in." He steps to the side, and I enter his ridiculously posh house.

"Your eye," I begin, before I look at my surroundings.

"None of your business," he snaps.

"OK."

As you walk through into the house, you immediately enter the living room. The room is big. There is a grey L-shaped sofa to the right, and a massive flat-screen T.V. hung on the white wall. In front of the couch, there is a wooden coffee table with a small woven cube basket which I can see TV remotes sticking out of and coasters placed in one corner of the table.

There's also a large painting placed on the wall next to the T.V. It's of different coloured lines. The picture leaves no room for the imagination because it is precisely what it is. Lines.

From what I can tell, the house is beautiful, but it lacks the feel of a home without any goofy family pictures anywhere. Maybe that's just what I'm used to as there are photos of my family in every room of my house, even the main bathroom. As my parents have five children, I know we'd have more pictures than the average family, though I would still expect them in a family home.

In contrast to my house, everything is neat in Alex's home. Nothing is out of place. Not even a key placed on top of a cabinet or an open newspaper on the coffee table. None of those things would be considered messy or out of place in my house, but it feels like if I were Alex and I placed even the slighted thing out of place, his parents would ground me until the age of thirty-two.

Everything seems cold and open, especially as everything is so bright. When people ask why I never want to live in a big house, this is my reasoning. Nothing is homey or cosy. I need that in a home, or else it's just a house.

He leads me through fancy-looking doors to the left into his Dracula-style dining room where there are already chemistry books placed on top of a long table waiting for me. In the middle, there is a glass vase that holds some of the flowers I saw in the front garden.

He sits down in one of the chairs then motions for me to sit in the seat opposite him. So place my bag onto the floor then slip into the chair.

I notice him looking at me with a smirk on his face with arms crossed over his chest.

"What?" I ask.

As I study him, I feel the embarrassment of what I thought about two days start creeping in again, exactly how it did in detention yesterday, as well as the fear that this was the time he was going to use to get back at me for calling him gay. I guess getting under his skin and finally winning a battle where he's my opponent doesn't rid of that feeling.

The self-consciousness is precisely due to the issue of how I thought of Alex physically being my type and how I drew someone that looked like him. His stare is making me feel a bit hot under the collar, but that doesn't mean I'm getting turned on or anything by the stare he's giving me, right? He's just intimidating. And cute. Damnit, he's cute.

It's so gross to think that I even shudder.

"What's your grade in chemistry?" He questions, looking slightly suspicious. I snap out of the daze I was momentarily in and glare at him. I already know that whatever grade I tell him, he'd either make fun of me or state that what I reply with seems too high and accuse me of lying, or maybe both.

Probably both. It's Alex. You couldn't put it past him.

I kind of expect him to mention something about what happened yesterday. Maybe a gay comment, or at least something to do with it, but he doesn't, which is strange. I thought he'd want to carry on the fight, to make sure he gets the last word. I guess he doesn't care. Having said that, he could be planning to do so later.

"Why do you want to know? To make fun of me?" I say sceptically, pulling my bag up and taking out a pencil case and a notepad. I assume it wouldn't be necessary to take out another chemistry book to add to his collection. I swear he's trying to prove how stupid I am by a placing book that is called chemistry for beginners in front of me.

"No. I want to know so I can understand what level you're working at and what areas you need to work on specifically. Just tell me." He still has a stupid smirk playing on his lips as he says that. There's no doubt there would be some making fun of in the mix. There just had to be; it was part of his ingredients.

I decided just to say it anyway. It was probably necessary if you're going to tutor someone, to know how and what exactly to teach the 'student' or whatever. "D."

"I didn't quite catch that, can you repeat that please?"

"You heard me."

"I know, I know, I'm just teasing." He laughs. I roll my eyes, ready to call him out on his lie already. "So you're at a grade D, huh? Interesting. See, I have no idea what it's like to have as low of a grade as you, so you're going to need to tell me what stuff you understand and if the work gets too hard."

"You're judging me. You told me you wouldn't." I say, crossing my arms across my chest and looking at him with a raised eyebrow and look that communicates 'so you really wanna do this, do you?' He raises an eyebrow back at me.

He gasps. "I am not!" He exclaims, holding his hands up as if I accused him of something so shocking and disgusting.

I shake my head in response to his behaviour. He acts ten years younger than he is. A child. A very obscene, bad-mannered child. I swear he's more childish than my three-year-old little brother. I have no idea how I'm supposed to have him as a tutor and survive. It's this or nothing, I guess.

"You are! Stop it!" I plead. He just laughs. I honestly feel as though I want to punch him right in his face and wipe his smug smile right off his lips, but I'm not violent like that unless it's a sibling. "Stop, it's not fair. Not everyone's as perfect as people seem to think you are. I don't see it but—"

"Wow, harsh." He puts a hand to his heart as if I just seriously hurt his precious feeling. He smirks once again. I give him the fakest smile I can muster in return. "I guess I deserved that."

"You did." I agree.

"OK, so we need to get shit done. I'm going to start you off with a simple question and you can tell me the answer," Alex starts, changing the subject. I nod. "What's the oxidation state of Hydrogen?"

I scoff, narrowing my eyes. "What the fuck does that even mean? You said it was going to be a simple question! That is not a simple question."

"Oh come on, it's not that hard!" He begins to laugh again. I stop myself from kicking him under the table as I huff and turning my head away in simple annoyance. His laughter dies down, "Sorry, you can have an easier question. What's the word equation for carbon dioxide?"

"Carbon plus oxygen equals CO2. See, I'm not that stupid."

"Congratulations, you know something."

I give him a sarcastic smile.

Halfway through the session, Alex suddenly looks up at me and asks, "What's Leeds?"

I look at him questioningly, so he points to my hoodie. Looking down, I realise why he asked. It's a University of Leeds hoodie. I can't quite recall how I got it, but I found it in my wardrobe and thought I'd put it on as I had nothing else to wear.

"It's a place in England. They have a university there." I say, stating the obvious as I go back to writing the answers to the questions I'm working out. Alex nods.

"Did you used to live there?"

"No, I lived in Brighton," I reply, not looking at him as I do so, but instead continuing to scribble down notes from the chemistry textbook into my answers. I have no actual clue about what I'm writing.

I still don't know what the oxidation state of Hydrogen is, but I can't be bothered to look it up in the book. Either Alex tells me, or I'm never going to know, I don't care either way.

"I thought Brighton was a place in Michigan."

"Well, it's also a place in England."

"I like the English accent," he states, which is funny because the first thing he said to me when I sat down next to him on my first day of school was that my accent made me sound gay.

A lot of people like to study my accent instead of actually listening to me a lot, and it was obvious Alex was doing that today. For some reason, Americans are obsessed with everything British. I could just be walking down the hallway at school having a conversation with Cami when some random girl would come up to me and say 'OMG I love your accent! It makes you even cuter!' then they would squeal with their friends and walk off. It gets quite annoying over time.

"I thought my accent makes me sound gay." I mutter. Alex ignores this.

"Say tomato," he asks randomly.

I roll my eyes, already knowing what he's getting at, "I'm not saying that."

He gives me puppy-dog eyes. I give in easily, not because of his puppy-dog eyes but because I'm curious about his reaction. "Fine. Tomato." He bursts out laughing in response. I just shake my head and try to copy down some more notes as he mocks me.

"Ooh, say water bottle." He asks me, looking somewhat excited. So he finds amusement out of my accent. How...uncomfortable.

"Absolutely not."

"Don't be a party pooper. You said tomato. Now say water bottle."

"Yeah because I'm really going to do what you say. Wow, you're so dominant. I'm intimidated!" I counter, faking a gasp.

He laughs, shaking his head, "Shut up."

———TW———

All the sudden, there is a loud bang, making me jump right out my skin. We both look up and towards the window. We can't see anything but curious about what it was, Alex gets up to check it out. However, I can't seem to get up out of my seat. I look at my hands to see that they're shaking. I already know what's happening: this is my body giving me revenge for not taking my damned meds.

I'm not scared of loud noises, and nothing happened in the past that would set off a reaction due to them. Still, because I didn't take my anxiety medication, my body seems to think anything out of the ordinary or whatever makes me jump is a threat and begins the fight or flight response.

This reaction is what happens when you rely on medication for a good number of years. You can't live without them until you train yourself to do so. I'm not quite ready for that.

Adrenaline floods through my body, causing my heart to speed up more. My hands continue to shake, more so now. A ringing in my ear begins, and I can hear Alex asking if I'm OK, but it's muffled and sounds as though he's far away from me. I can't respond because there's a lump in my throat, restricting me from doing so. I feel trapped.

My hands begin to drench themselves in sweat due to it feeling 50°C. I can't seem to slow down my breathing, and my heart is pounding against my rib cage like a drum, making my chest hurt. I have a headache spreading across my head. Any noise seems to hurt my ears.

This attack is happening way too quick, way too fast, way too intense for something so small. It's a complete overreaction but there's nothing I can do to stop it. I haven't forgotten to take my meds in so long, meaning my body doesn't know how to react, thus overreacting.

In, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. I do exactly as my old therapist told me to do. Breath in for seven seconds, pause for a further four, then out for eight. I repeat that, trying to calm the rapid beating of my heart against my chest. Slowly I feel myself calm down and begin to hear and see again. It takes a small while, but I get there.

———TW OVER———

I look up and see Alex walking into the room with a glass of water and a look of confused concern. He sits next to me and passes me the glass, to which I thank him for taking the initiative to get for me.

After I take a sip of the water, he says, "Dude, are you OK? Was that a panic attack?" I don't respond as I press the palms of my hand to my eyes. "Was it caused by the noise? Is that like a trigger or something?"

I shake my head, "Anxiety attack. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Anxiety attacks have a stressor. The bang. Panic attacks can but they don't always, and they're more intense," I respond, feeling awkward. There's more to it, but I feel no desire to sit here and explain further.

I expect myself to feel embarrassed, but I don't.  I just feel awkward. Many people at school know that I have anxiety, including Alex, and I've had panic attacks at school before. I'm not made fun of for it or anything, and it's out of my control. I've learned to remind myself that it's nothing to be embarrassed about myself.

Suddenly Alex's demeanour changes, "If you don't tell anyone about me being your tutor, then I won't tell anyone about your anxiety attack, OK?"

He says it so coldly that it takes me by surprise.

That's a borderline fucking threat!

I look at him with a disgusted expression on my face. "You think I'm ashamed of it? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I stand up, grab my stuff and leave the room. I can hear Alex trying to say something to me, but I'm not listening and tell him where to shove it. I exit the house and slam the door behind me. The noise was a bit too loud for me at the moment because the ringing had subsided but not entirely. I didn't care as long as he heard it.

Rushing straight to my car, I get in. However, I can't drive off right away as my hands are still shaking too much from being so pissed off on top of almost having a full-blown anxiety attack. Hence, I lean my head on my steering wheel and focus on my breathing for about five minutes until my heart rate is near to normal again, and my hands shake less.

At first, I think maybe I've overreacted and should go in and apologise for slamming the door. Then I almost slap myself for thinking of something so stupid.

Using someone's anxiety to threaten them, during a time in which they are basically in the middle of an anxiety attack, is a pretty shitty thing to do. Using someone's mental health, something the victim can't control, just to make them feel ashamed of themselves is horrible. If he was going to attempt that on me, then I was not going to stay. He should be the one to apologise, not me.

God, I need a coffee.

When I get home, my mum can sense something's happened like she always can. It's a motherly instinct, as she always says.

As soon as I walk in, she's rushing up to me and instantly starts fussing over me. "Stai bene, è successo qualcosa? ("Are you OK, did something happen?")." I brush her off. "You've had a panic attack, haven't you? Did you not take your medication? Tesoro, you need to take your pills. Maybe you should start therapy again? I still have the contact details—"

"We don't have the money for that."

"Matthew—"

"Mamma, I'm fine, it's nothing," I say, trying to push past her, really not in the mood for a lecture about the importance of taking my medication. Sofia and Eva are stood by the door of the kitchen, watching the small quarrel. Sofia looks at though she's about to interject, so I give her a look as if to say don't try it.

"Non è niente, è serio! (It is not nothing, it's serious!)"

"Mamma, Lascia perdere (Just leave it!)" I snap and run up the stairs, closing the door of my bedroom a bit too hard causing a slam to echo through the house, but then again, I couldn't care less.

I take a few pills to calm myself, laying on m bed, waiting. Soon enough, I try to relax, taking a deep breath.

What is happening to me? Why can't I just figure out who the fuck I am? Why does Alex have to treat me the way he does and why is it now that he's causing me to react in the way I've been doing so: tensing, getting flustered, hot under the collar?

What have I done so wrong, causing this all to be the outcome of my life? My God, somebody fucking help me with this.

After a few minutes, the pills begin to set in.

Calm down, Matthew. My sub-conscience says. Just calm the fuck down. It's not a big deal.