Crash
One;
Five Months Earlier.
“Eat your toast,” She said. “Damnit, Peyton just eat your goddamn toast.”
I turned to look up at my mother and slowly lowered my head, narrowing my eyes at her. I was planning on eating my toast, I really was, but the fact that she was so adamant on me doing so and the fact that me not doing it was obviously tearing her apart, I didn't eat it. I knew it was wrong for me to think like that, to want my mom to suffer, but me being told my whole life that in my condition, I was supposed to do this, gave me reason to.
Ever since I was young I was told that I was different. I was different than all of the other kids at my school. It had all started when my mother was concerned that I didn’t have any friends. It wasn’t that I didn’t want any friends; I just knew that none of the kids at my school were worth even trying to be compatible with. They all confused me, and annoyed me. So me, being eight years old and refusing to make friends with the other girls and invite them over to play Barbies, concluded to me being brought by my mother to our doctor. Our doctor sent me to a therapist.
I was sent to my first therapist when I was eight years old because I didn’t want to make any friends. Sounds crazy right? You tell them that.
My therapist later diagnosed me with isolation disorder with a false sense of reality and a large chance of developing antisocial personality disorder after the age of 15. Apparently, pretending to be in a different world sometimes when I played, was considered wrong. I remember he sat me down and gave me some dolls to play with. There was a dollhouse, and he told me to play with the dolls inside of it. I told him I didn’t want to do that, and then pretended that the dolls were in a desert, riding on invisible camels. Apparently, a child with this sort of imagination was deemed as a child with a false sense of reality. If I could go back to the day he diagnosed me, I would shove that diagnoses right up his ass and tell him to get off his high horse, but I was only eight years old. So, I grabbed my mother’s hand as we walked out of his office, and ever since that day, things had changed.
I grew up being told that I wasn’t like anyone else. I had a problem. A disorder. My parents tiptoed around me, and my older brother called me a freak. Every single thing I did was criticized, picked apart, observed. As I grew up, I was told that I’d never be normal.
“Peyton, please,” My mother said calmly. I tilted my head to the side slightly, grabbed my toast and lifted it up to my lips slowly. My mother’s leg jumped up and down anxiously. My blue eyes made contact with her brown ones, and I hastily took a bite of the bread and then dropped it down on my plate. My mother sighed and then shook her head. “God, you always have to be so damn difficult, don’t you?”
“Hey, I ate the toast, didn’t I? Now what else do you want from me? It was toast,” I muttered. “It’s not my fault you had to make a federal case out of it.”
“What is the matter with you?”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the kitchen table.
“Oh, gee, I don’t know, Mom,” I replied. “Why don’t you take me to go see Dr. Philander and he’ll let us both know.”
My mother scoffed and quickly stood up and walked out of the kitchen. My older brother, Kingston walked in and passed by the table, grabbing the piece of bitten toast off of my plate.
“Freak,” He muttered.
“Good one,” I replied bitterly. He just shot me a dirty look and grabbed the car keys off of the hook by the door.
“Are you coming or are you going to sit there all day?” He asked.
I reluctantly stood up and grabbed my backpack before following him into our garage and into his car. It was hard having to deal with getting a ride from your brother to school each day when you know that he absolutely despised your very existence. He barely ever speaks to me unless it’s telling me to move or telling me how stupid and inadequate I am. Our relationship was created out of pure detest for one another and he made sure to remind me of that every day. But he was graduating this year, and going to college, so I’d finally be able to be rid of him. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing though, taken that when he leaves, I would be alone with my parents for another year until I graduate high school. The thought made me seriously shudder.
“I’ll meet you back here at three,” Kingston muttered as he parked his car in the high school parking lot. He quickly jumped out and walked to go meet some of his friends. I stayed in the car for another moment, in silence, until I sighed and exited the car myself.
And that distinct moment was the moment that I would remember forever. That was the moment when I first laid eyes on Micah Burroughs. That was the moment that’d change my life.
“Eat your toast,” She said. “Damnit, Peyton just eat your goddamn toast.”
I turned to look up at my mother and slowly lowered my head, narrowing my eyes at her. I was planning on eating my toast, I really was, but the fact that she was so adamant on me doing so and the fact that me not doing it was obviously tearing her apart, I didn't eat it. I knew it was wrong for me to think like that, to want my mom to suffer, but me being told my whole life that in my condition, I was supposed to do this, gave me reason to.
Ever since I was young I was told that I was different. I was different than all of the other kids at my school. It had all started when my mother was concerned that I didn’t have any friends. It wasn’t that I didn’t want any friends; I just knew that none of the kids at my school were worth even trying to be compatible with. They all confused me, and annoyed me. So me, being eight years old and refusing to make friends with the other girls and invite them over to play Barbies, concluded to me being brought by my mother to our doctor. Our doctor sent me to a therapist.
I was sent to my first therapist when I was eight years old because I didn’t want to make any friends. Sounds crazy right? You tell them that.
My therapist later diagnosed me with isolation disorder with a false sense of reality and a large chance of developing antisocial personality disorder after the age of 15. Apparently, pretending to be in a different world sometimes when I played, was considered wrong. I remember he sat me down and gave me some dolls to play with. There was a dollhouse, and he told me to play with the dolls inside of it. I told him I didn’t want to do that, and then pretended that the dolls were in a desert, riding on invisible camels. Apparently, a child with this sort of imagination was deemed as a child with a false sense of reality. If I could go back to the day he diagnosed me, I would shove that diagnoses right up his ass and tell him to get off his high horse, but I was only eight years old. So, I grabbed my mother’s hand as we walked out of his office, and ever since that day, things had changed.
I grew up being told that I wasn’t like anyone else. I had a problem. A disorder. My parents tiptoed around me, and my older brother called me a freak. Every single thing I did was criticized, picked apart, observed. As I grew up, I was told that I’d never be normal.
“Peyton, please,” My mother said calmly. I tilted my head to the side slightly, grabbed my toast and lifted it up to my lips slowly. My mother’s leg jumped up and down anxiously. My blue eyes made contact with her brown ones, and I hastily took a bite of the bread and then dropped it down on my plate. My mother sighed and then shook her head. “God, you always have to be so damn difficult, don’t you?”
“Hey, I ate the toast, didn’t I? Now what else do you want from me? It was toast,” I muttered. “It’s not my fault you had to make a federal case out of it.”
“What is the matter with you?”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the kitchen table.
“Oh, gee, I don’t know, Mom,” I replied. “Why don’t you take me to go see Dr. Philander and he’ll let us both know.”
My mother scoffed and quickly stood up and walked out of the kitchen. My older brother, Kingston walked in and passed by the table, grabbing the piece of bitten toast off of my plate.
“Freak,” He muttered.
“Good one,” I replied bitterly. He just shot me a dirty look and grabbed the car keys off of the hook by the door.
“Are you coming or are you going to sit there all day?” He asked.
I reluctantly stood up and grabbed my backpack before following him into our garage and into his car. It was hard having to deal with getting a ride from your brother to school each day when you know that he absolutely despised your very existence. He barely ever speaks to me unless it’s telling me to move or telling me how stupid and inadequate I am. Our relationship was created out of pure detest for one another and he made sure to remind me of that every day. But he was graduating this year, and going to college, so I’d finally be able to be rid of him. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing though, taken that when he leaves, I would be alone with my parents for another year until I graduate high school. The thought made me seriously shudder.
“I’ll meet you back here at three,” Kingston muttered as he parked his car in the high school parking lot. He quickly jumped out and walked to go meet some of his friends. I stayed in the car for another moment, in silence, until I sighed and exited the car myself.
And that distinct moment was the moment that I would remember forever. That was the moment when I first laid eyes on Micah Burroughs. That was the moment that’d change my life.