Waiting

• Tom Pearce, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2009

The ringing still dwells faintly in my ears. It’s been at least ten minutes since the crack reverberated down the dank hallway. I don’t know what, or who it was but I’ve only just managed to compose myself after instinctively ducking to the floor, hands wrapped around my head. In my chest, the pounding of my heart continues unrelentingly. Was there yelling? I can’t tell, my addled mind could be confusing me.
I instinctively look towards the medicine cabinet. No, not today, I vowed to kick the habit today. I know my case worker said they were for my own good, but I don’t trust her. I don’t trust anybody anymore. That’s why I disconnected the phone two months ago, people would ring me, want me out of the house. But I know they are just trying to hurt me. That’s how it always is, always has been.
I think back to our last appointment, she said to practise the relaxation exercises we talked through. That was a good day. I even left the house for a while afterwards. It felt like the right, normal thing to do. Though people kept looking at me, everywhere I looked, eyes were following me. Another crash echo’s through the hall and I’m dragged back to my dilemma.
What if it’s something serious? I have these hunches, these ideas that something may be amiss, something could be wrong. Maybe, maybe I should call the authorities. Maybe I should call her. No. I’m still waiting for a call from her. She said she’d call but she never did. I can’t trust anyone anymore.
No, no I think I’ll sit on this one. Keep this one to myself. Besides, who honestly cares what I think. The last call I made the police threatened to take action against me if I kept ringing. No, definitely keep this to myself…