That One Fear

Everyone has that one fear, that thing that holds him or her back at some point. That bit of personal information that seems to destroy you whenever it resurfaces, some come from nowhere but mine comes from the darkest part of my life.

I had been dreading the day for weeks, my anxiety tearing at my stomach as I walked home knowing where I would have to go.  My parents, my own parents, were leading me to my personal hell.  It is true that I had never told them about my fear of this place, about what happened the first time.  I had no desire to appear weak before them, to ask for sympathy.  In fact I don’t believe I told anyone until after Emma confessed, what he did was normal in my mind. 

I stood in front of the door to my house for what seemed like a lifetime knowing that when I chose to open it, I would have to go.  When I could postpone no longer, for fear of my Mother spotting me, I finally entered.  I could feel a sigh of relief escape my lips when I realized my Father had yet to arrive.  I had a few more minutes before my trip. 

I walked with a much lighter heart into my Mother’s office, where I was sure to be greeted with distractions. 

My assumptions proved to be correct as my Mother spilled the stories, which had plagued her day.  She sloshed chili in the kitchen, smashed her cookies while removing them from the oven, and even trotted on dog shit that was left on her office floor.  To no surprise she was livid. 

Unfortunately even these plights that spoiled her morning were not severe enough to hold my attention for long.  My Father was running late, although I could hope he got held up in traffic or something of that sort.  My mind already being in a distressed state always assumes the worst.  I was wrestling with the fact that if my father didn’t return for another hour I could postpone further, when I heard the roar of his truck as it cruised up the driveway. 

The verdict had been finalized; I had no choice but to go.  I threw my jacket back on (it had been removed in hopes that I wouldn’t have to leave), and meandered to the beaten-up dodge minivan that looked almost as bad as I felt.

My Father attempted to make small talk as we drove, and I tried to answer, surely I did but every time a question was posed my voice seemed to grow weaker, until it was barely more than a whisper.  My Father being the oblivious man that he is, only then realized that something could be wrong, that perhaps the memories were back again.  He asked me if I was OK, and as always my reply was I am fine.

Now as I have said I was the opposite of fine, the dread was tearing me apart.  I could feel my breaths grow shallow, and I could hear the shivers that caused the Goosebumps that littered my arms, and even worse I could taste the bile as it tried desperately to escape my throat.

Although, the discomfort of the car ride had been nearly unbearable, when we arrived I knew only worse waited for me ahead. 

As I walked as slowly as possible into the office, the flashbacks became interspersed with my thoughts.  On one hand the man who plagued me was gone, yet on the other this one could be the same.  My breaths grew, if possible, shallower as my father checked me in and we took our seats. 

I tried to remain calm and to keep my lunch down as I examined the tackily decorated room.  The pale yellow walls were adorned with Monet prints, and signs advertising a home makeover show.  I was surrounded in this room, which could not have seemed smaller to me at the time, by people of all ages and all of them seemed to be calm.  I tried my hardest to convince myself that nothing could be wrong with this place, with this man, yet as I sat there I once again remembered the playroom, the one that instilled false comfort into the children, but worse into the parents.  This room smelled the same, the odors assaulting me, just like he did.  My Father is filling out paperwork next to me and tries to make a joke, asking if I’m pregnant.  I tried to force a giggle, but once again he notices and he asks if I am OK, and once again I reply that I am fine.

The door to my holding cell opens, and my name is called.  Just like the last place, my Father cannot join me; this instills fear in my heart even now.

A woman led me into my torture cell, with me praying that she will be the one to treat me.  My wish fortunately came true until after her examination was finished.  Her superior coming in then hampered this.  I know from experience that the superior will be a male, that he will try to make some jokes, that he will be a little squat and that his hair will be graying, for they are all the same.  I was right; he entered and told me the results.  But then he told me not to be afraid, that they were there to help me not hurt me.  He soon left to attend to another, leaving the nice lady from before to finish my appointment. 

She asked my favorite color, I told her I had no preference.  Finally, after what seemed like ages I was released.  I walked towards the lobby, towards my Father, with my new green toothbrush in hand, only thinking that this is the first time I remember that I did not cry after going to the dentist.