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Anxiety; mental uneasiness.


Lies lay beneath Fake stories.

Medication: prescribing your own.

Falling in love, helplessly.

Home, which one?

Family, who?

Friends, which knife do I take out my back first?

Scars, none of them are pretty, but they all hold a pretty good explanation.

Brooklyn Matthews. Riley Oakley seems to be her medication. View table of contents...


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Submitted:Apr 6, 2014    Reads: 26    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   

Please share! It would mean so much! Thanks for reading. :)


Resting my head against the cool glass window, I listen intently as the patter of the rain soothes out the aggravating thoughts that invade my screwed up mind. The overwhelming scent of coffee filling my nose covers up the awful stench of the elderly man behind me.

I'm still clasping the cup between my hands, even though the warmth from the creamy latte has long since leached into the air surrounding me.

I have lost all sense of feeling from the waist down. I feel anesthetized. I should get up, move around, and work the stiffness from my limbs. But instead I sit, as motionless as the seat beneath, while the window gets attacked by powerful drops of rain.

My homework is disarranged and neglected opposite my transfixed body, it has been since I arrived here. Gradually lifting the latte to my unmoistened lips, I take a long overdue gulp and allow the brisk sensation to tranquilize my parched throat, chills radiating all over my body. Placing it down on the table, I swiftly pick up my pencil and let it travel across the paper at its own pace, as the bothersome thoughts still insist on whirling throughout my mind.

After three painful sentences, the led at the end of my pencil snaps. Groaning outwardly, I slam down the remains on the table, feeling it quiver slightly under the pressure I put upon it.

It just proves that under pressure, precious things can break.

The ringing of the bell above the door catches my attention. My body heat instantly rises, my palms begin to sweat uncontrollably, and the all too familiar sense of insane butterflies erupts inside of me as my heartbeat accelerates. Questions begin to race back and forth through my mind: do I look okay? Should I get up and say hi? What will he think of me?

Sitting here, all by myself, doing homework.

You're probably wondering who I am blabbing on about so, I'm going to give you a tedious also predictable, love story (well not entirely).

Riley Oakley, the same age as me - 17. I've known him since I moved here, to Gateway Public High School, a couple of months ago. I guess you could say it was love at first sight but who believes in that rubbish? I certainly do not.

Riley is the popular guy at Gateway Public, he isn't a foreseeable high school idiot that will sleep with any girl within a one mile radius who strolls around with her body on show. He's different. He's compassionate, affectionate and brainy, much similar to a nerd but minus the glasses, braces and books.

When I first moved here, I was the shiny new toy; everybody wanted to play with me. But that soon came to a standstill when they all found out my now-not-so-little secret, one that I loathed to keep to me, myself and I.

Along with Rachel Odair, my best friend, Riley seemed to accept me for who I was, who I am. He seemed to understand my situation - even though we never really knew with each other.

Taking a quick glimpse towards the door, I discover a fragile old lady struggling to carry her shopping bags. Exhaling, I close my homework book, making myself rise up onto my feet. All my joints complain and my legs have been asleep for so long that it takes several seconds of pacing to bring the feeling back into them.

"Hey, let me help you with those." I propose to the elderly woman when I reach her, "There's a free table over there." I point over to the deserted table.

I guffaw, offering my hand out as she presents me with her shopping, murmuring a quick somewhat of a thank you, I head over to the table. I gather up my work books, muddled up pieces of paper and shove them in my Vans backpack. Hoisting it onto my right shoulder, I making a bee line for the exit.

As I did so, something - or someone - collides into my shoulder and accidentally knocks my bag to the ground. Groaning, for the billionth time this afternoon, I swivel around to retrieve it back when I notice it's no longer sprawled on the floor.

"Let me help you with those." Riley Oakley mimics my earlier speech, smirking with his infamous smirk.

As he hands over my backpack, I mentally smile as the butterflies overflow my stomach. I find my eyes travelling up and down his perfect sculpture. His light blonde hair with a quiff at the front, effortlessly styled, his piercing blue eyes staring into my soul. I glanced down at his outfit, casual but attractive. A pale blue shirt, overlaid by his jacket. His jet black skinny jeans hung loosely around his hips and to complete his effortless look, a pair of gleaming white converse.

Another feature that attracted me to Riley was his scent; the fragrance composed of a blonde leather and a patchouli base that blends into rose and cinnamon and finishes off with blood orange and peppermint. Paco Rabanne. It's a noticeably sweeter smell for a woody scent. The pleasing odour lingers around the air, producing water to escape my mouth unexpectedly. Wiping the drool with my sleeve, I noticed I must of been dreaming, it was completely dry.

"Well, don't you look like you're on cloud nine today?" Riley stated, rather sarcastically.

"Yes, homework." I spoke, rolling my eyes and rolling on the balls of my feet to my toes every now and again. "And just because someone looks happy, it doesn't mean they are. Even a white rose has a black shadow."

"What do you mean?" Riley asks.

"I mean, sometimes there's only one way out. Work it out for yourself." I stare at his perplexed expression for a couple of seconds, before grinning to myself slightly and exiting.

As I was about to depart from the building, I overhear Riley's raspy voice come out with "Struggles are only temporary."

What does he mean? "Struggles are only temporary."

Lost in thought I didn't realize Kailin, also my best friend, had been trying to get into contact with me. Studying the screen, I warily answer.

"Brooklyn?! Brooklyn?!" Kailin distresses down the speakerphone, disabling my good hearing. "Yes? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" I impatiently question.

"No, I need you to come over quick. Please!" she pleads.

"With what?" I rhetorically ask. "But sure, I'm making my way over right now. I'll be there soon. Don't worry."

Before she could get even another work in, I instantly end the call and hurry towards Kailins. It's about half a mile-long walk from Starbucks.

It's an ordinary community built up of rows of houses, big houses, each large enough to hold ten of the ones I was raised in. Each fronted with a beautiful lawn, immaculately cut. A couple stand empty, as they have for a couple of months now.

I was, in some ways, envious of Kailin. She had the enormous house, immensely gorgeous looks; her long chocolate brown hair which reached her waist, olive skin, grey eyes. The popularity was another factor of why I was envious of my best friend. And one of the many talents that came with Kailin was her ability to speak to boys without having the probability of getting tongue-tied.

Speed-walking to Kailins house, I anticipate what I could be in for. She seemed so confused, anxious and had a slight pleading tone to her voice.

I try not to think of worse case scenarios and stay positive; being melodramatic will not help my anxiety.

As I quickly turn the slight corner on end of the street, I see that Kailin's mum and dad's Land Rover is not parked on the drive way.

Worrying even more, I break into a run, reaching the two steps on the patio of the house, I bounce up them and bang on the door like a wild beast that hasn't eaten in weeks and needs to reach its pray.


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