Page 9 of When Hearts Surrender

“I won’t. It’s time.” I won’t let three measly words define me anymore.

Severe social anxiety.

So severe I get auditory and visual hallucinations, which are extremely rare for the condition.

I was diagnosed after Mom passed away when Ryland and I were seven. I’m fine with people I know, well or in controlled environments where the spotlight isn’t shining on me, but in situations such as this, I’d rather take a dive in Lake Superior in December than brave the crowds.

But it’s been twenty-nine fucking years since I got the diagnosis. I’m done hiding.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I accept myself.

I can do this.

“I have to go, Ryland.”

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders, push open the doors, and step into the glaring light, my mind spinning a thousand rotations a minute.

The sizeable crowd of grays and blacks rises abruptly, their shapes quickly blurring. Their voices morph into a terrifying roar in my ears. My heart throws itself against my rib cage and the tie cinches my neck in a chokehold.

My feet stumble, but I quickly recover and stride up the steps of the stage to the daunting podium with a solo spotlight shining on it. Sweat drips down my forehead as my fingers dig into the edge of the stand.

I’m calm. I’m at peace. I can do this.The words are swept away by the tornado obliterating my focus, my resolve. I stare into the crowd, unable to see the faces, my mind imagining a venomous monster, rising from the ashes of the dead, jowls opened wide, fangs bared, murder in its eyes.

White spots dot my vision. Flashes of lights from cameras. That must be what they are.

But my mind can’t compute as I lean on the solid oak podium, clinging onto it for dear life, a captain sinking with his boat, lost at treacherous seas.

My vision is washed in more brightness, more white lights, and I feel myself swaying. Acid makes its way from my stomach to my esophagus, and I want to dry heave onto the desk. My fingers fiddle with my insignia ring, a last-ditch effort to cling on to rationality.

It’s imaginary. It’s all in your mind, Maxwell. Snap out of it.

I hear laughter and screeches. Chaos, more chaos.

“Look at him,” my classmates jeer and point to me as I stand in front of the altar at the church. “He can’t even make a speech for his mom.”

“He’s stupid. That’s what Dad told me. A broken Anderson.”

My legs tremble as I remain frozen in place, feeling the spotlight above me melting away my skin and muscles.

They are wrong. I want to tell them how much I’m hurting right now, how there are no words to describe what I feel when I think about how Mommy will never sit with us in the gardens again, watching me paint and reading books with Ryland. How no one will play songs on the old phonograph in the sitting room again. How our large, gloomy mansion will no longer have music or singing.

But I can’t speak. I’m frozen.

The people blur in front of me. Scary shapes of black. Their fingers pointing, their mouths moving, whispering behind theirhands or their opened fans. I’m melting onto the floor, my skin and bones a disgusting mess in front of them.

Maybe it’s better that way. If I die, I get to be with Mommy.

After all, I’m cursed. I overheard Daddy and Grandpa talking about it. Mommy died because of the curse.

Tears gather in my eyes and I look at Mommy, lying in the casket with a cold, unfamiliar painted smile on her face.

I can’t even tell the world how much I love and miss her.

I’m a failure.

Subtle laughter and loud shouts wrench me away from my memory and back to the present.

“G-Good evening. I’m Maxw-well Anderson.”

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