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Creative Writing: Anxiety Fights

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Crawling up my throat in attempt to grab a hold of the words, anxiety fights. I manage to take control and force it to fall back and disappear into the empty soul inside of me.
“Can you try not to be offended if I tell you something?”
“Please don’t tell me that Jacob and I aren’t suited, John.”
“No, don’t be paranoid. It’s just that I had a big crush on you in Year 10. I wanted to ask you out but I was scared you’d say no.”
“I had a bigger crush on you.”
Her forced smile proved the statement an obvious lie.
“Really? I’m touched.”, I respond giving the utmost sarcastic grin.
“Jacob’s a bit funny about you and all. He’s got his own demons in a way, but you’re a friend, John, and we’re probably going to be in the same university taking the same …show more content…

My father lived his life his way. I should have the same choice. The future is mine, to do whatever I want with it.”, I sweat ridiculously imagining what my father would say if he heard those words come out of my mouth.
“You’re a psycho today, John, I wish I had your attitude. I’m almost there but I don’t think I’ve come to my emancipation yet.”
“Good word. ‘The Emancipation of John Barton’.”
“So what will the emancipated John Barton do with his life?”
I chuckle a little and say, “Anything he wants, Josephine, anything he damn well wants.”
I express goodbye with a hug so tight I hear her heart beating rhythmically in sync with mine, “Look after yourself, Josephine.”
Her embrace speaks life into me and keeps me warm as the wind begins to pick up and run down my spine. If only the feeling was mutual. Just as I turn to wave one final goodbye I’m interrupted by a thick deep voice.
“John Barton!”
Ugh. How did he find me? What does he want now? I’ve rehearsed my speech multiple times, I even caught with all my studies. He expects so much from me. Ugh! I hate the word. Expectations. It’s the constant pressure of trying to be better than you were yesterday. It drives my …show more content…

I try to yell for help but no sound eludes the edges of my lips. I struggle to grasp even a single breath. The look in his eyes makes my blood run cold. His face, rigid with tension, contradicts his youth.
I cheer him on with a vague grunt, “D-o it al-rea-dy.”
But in an instant everything comes to a halt. I inhale a mixture of his aroma and my burning flesh, desperate for air.
“I do this because I love you.”, he insists.
“That’s what you said to mother and look where she’s ended up!”, I yell hysterically without hesitation.
His thighs contract as he straightens and he spits in utter disappointment before he leaves.
This is what he calls love? What ever happened to tender and warm?
My eyes dance around searching, but for what? There. Bruises stand out. Scars cry out. But his pallid complexion is what made his eyes the highlight. Bloodshot red. I’m far from a splitting image of my father.
I no longer stare at the mirror in search for my reflection, but for an intelligent yet bloodcurdling thought. The idea gives me monstrous joy and causes a slight whisper to escape my lips, “freedom”. The word constantly repeats like a broken record in my head, urging me to fulfil this

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