Chapter 6
Oliver
To say my heart was beating out of my chest was an understatement because despite all that I had already done this morning?
The interviews, the filler segments, the filming of small snippets of quotes to use and of course the walkaround of this flat.
It looked like a furniture showroom to be honest. The walls wobbled precariously; everything had that air of being far too new, even the windows still bearing the installation stickers, like this was a purpose-built temporary shelter.
And I was still panicking on the inside. Truly and pathetically so.
There was a smallish double bed in the middle of the room, with a bathroom off to the side.
A small kitchenette and a table and chairs for two.
A sofa that definitely wouldn’t hold a grown man comfortably.
On purpose, of course. Nobody would be sleeping on that sofa tonight.
I was intending to jump in feet first here and ensure the guy who was apparently on the other side of that plywood monstrosity of a door knew exactly that.
I wasn’t kidding around here. I’d never been a quitter, and this was supposed to be a sure thing. Instant happiness…of some sort.
“Tell me how you’re feeling, Oliver. Behind that door is someone who could potentially change the entire course of your life. Someone who could give you what your life has been missing.”
It was funny how they all spoke here, like they were making subtle promises using neutral words.
Promising nothing when the words clearly wanted to give me hope.
It felt weird and, I had to admit, unnatural.
I was expected to just play along and let things happen.
React as I would in real life, when it was glaringly obvious that all this wasn’t real.
A show. A theatre production of sorts. An amateur one perhaps, because I had no idea how I was supposed to stand, let alone act.
I’d been tucked into a suit, my bow-tie too tight around my neck.
A selection of cheap jewellery making my wrist itch.
My expensive watch tucked away in my bag, since unauthorised branded items were a no-go.
I scratched the patch of bare skin my watch had left behind, not used to not having the heavy weight on my arm.
My hands were shaking anyway. My heart beating irregularly.
I felt nauseous, sweating profusely under all the clothes I was wearing, but that was fairly normal for me coming down from another stupid sesh on the snow. Not smart. Not clever.
Wrong. Everything felt wrong and weird.
“Any second now, Oliver. What are you thinking? Will this be the one who ends up being the love of your life?”
My throat was too dry to function. Was this the one? The one what? What kind of question was that? Did I have a choice here?
And just like that, the door handle pushed downwards, a subtle click of a lock as I froze.
Through that door walked a man.
Wrong word. A granddad. A silver-haired old guy. Someone’s dad. A…shit. Shit.
Not only that, the guy was staring at me, with something I could only describe as wild panic in his eyes. His face twisted into a grimace of…disgust.
“Who’s this?” he barked, looking around the room in confusion. “Where is she?”
Silence. He looked at the producer dude. The cameraman. Back at the producer. Then at me.
“Is this a joke?” he said sternly, a slight wobble in his voice. “There has obviously been some mistake; I am here to meet a woman.”
“For fuck’s sake!” shot out of my mouth. “What the actual?”
Nobody said a word. Silence.
“He’s not even an adult!” Granddad barked. “What’s going on here?”
No shit, Granddad. Mr Straight-bloke-of-the-century. Bad haircut, bad clothes, oozing homophobic panic and staring at me with all that revulsion as I just stood there. Trembling.
Fuck. Fuck. Not now. Not here, not now. This was when I did…exactly what?
“I’m a fucking grown-up!” came out of me.
“Is this a joke?” he snarled, turning on his heel. Staring at the production staff in disgust. “Because if it is? It’s absolutely inappropriate. Insensitive.”
More silence. Enough silence that I could hear it through the beating in my chest. Deafening.
“Answer me, goddammit!” Shouting. I couldn’t bear shouting. Arguing, yelling, the swearwords and the profanities. The…
“Peter, calm down. This is Oliver, your partner for this project…”
“He’s a man!” Granddad screeched, as I fell to my haunches. Floor. My head spinning. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
I couldn’t hear the response. Not that I wanted to hear it.
“If this is your idea of fun, then I…” I didn’t know what I was trying to say. Dry-swallowing words that were failing to come out of my mouth.
“Fun?” Granddad said sternly. “Is this supposed to be some kind of meet-cute? Was that not what was in the contract?”
His sarcasm was on point, and… “You’re old enough to be my granddad,” I coughed out. Sat on the floor. Head between my knees. Then I tried to look up, but my head was swimming. “Old…” I continued, a drop of spit falling from my mouth. I could see it on the floor, briefly.
“I’m not that old…”
For a second, I thought he was smiling. Then I had to drop my head again.
This was the way I became. My panic attacks were not only frequent but horrid, and they would come at the most stupid moments.
Those sudden times when the floorboards fell from underneath my feet.
When nothing made sense. When I felt like I was free-falling.
Failing badly. When the maths didn’t math.
When my stupid bloody brain just wouldn’t function.
I tried to swallow but ended up biting down hard on my tongue. My breaths felt like mere whimpers. My vision was swimming in a blur I couldn’t control. Nausea in waves, mixed with that horrid lack of control. I couldn’t stop it. None of it.
“This is ridiculous!” the man shouted, as the producer person was trying to talk to him, soft words that I failed to make out.
Nothing made sense, and I was trying to get my head between my knees, instead making my bum hit the floor with an alarming creak.
My arse would bruise. And my arms were flailing, trying to find some kind of stability in the too-tight trousers I’d been made to wear.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not happening. This? This was truly someone’s idea of a cruel joke. What the fuck? What the actual mother-effing-fuck?
The cusswords spluttering out of my mouth in strained whispers felt unfamiliar and out of place. The same words that would usually make me freeze up as my body wallowed in old unresolved trauma were now flying out of my mouth, the rain of spit hitting my knees as I allowed tears to form in my eyes.
This was not me. This was not happening. This?
It went on and on. Over and over. People moving around, making wafts of air hit my skin as I rocked against my bent-up knees, my hands over my ears.
Like a child. Like a fucking child.
Then there was a sudden silence. A welcome relief that only seemed to fuel the panic in my chest. The urge to run. Flee. Get out of here. Just run until I couldn’t run anymore.
This wasn’t a new feeling, but it had been a while since I’d become like this without the help of my chemical friends.
A bad hit. Scoring diluted shit. Coke made me careless and brave…
but also paranoid. Any drugs did. They made my heart beat too fast, my brain spiral and my thoughts go to places I didn’t like going.
I’d taken stuff last night, obviously. The afterglow in my system was turning on me with a vengeance.
“That’s it.” He was shouting, the granddad, and I was trying to curl in on myself even further.
A camera pointed straight at me. The production manager was sporting a weird mix of horror and excitement when I mistakenly looked up, wondering if this guy’s fists were next.
A well-aimed kick at my already battered body.
It wouldn’t have been the first time. Probably not the last. I’d had some bad experiences. Really bad…
“Get out. Everyone out. Now!” the granddad shouted, waving his arms around as I tried to move backwards, trying to get myself into a corner, when I was already crawling up against the sofa. Soft fabric behind my back. I wanted to go through it. Behind it. Anywhere but here.
“GET OUT!”
There were movements. Words trying to placate someone who was clearly out of control.
But then there was a door slamming shut, followed by…silence. An absolute deafening silence. The only thing I could hear was my heartbeat slamming in my chest. My pathetic whines for breath.
Alone. I was all alone in here, just me, my stupid panic and fuck…
cameras. Bloody cameras everywhere. I couldn’t help the movement, the way my feet tried to get traction on the polished wooden floor, trying to crawl into a corner.
Far away. A blind spot. Surely the cameras didn’t cover the corners. Far far away.
I hadn’t moved more than a few inches, my back pushed hard into the furniture behind me. The scraping of wood against floor. An ill-advised muscle movement. My eyes flickering.
He was sitting right in front of me, just watching me. A new look on his face.
Calm. Just calm.
“Just breathe,” he said. The granddad.
I tried to respond, with no idea what words I would have said had the air in my lungs let me form them. Another bout of wild panic shot through my veins.
“Breathe with me. Oliver, is it? Listen to my breathing, and try to breathe with me.”
“Fuck. Off,” I managed to force out in a weird voice that sounded nothing like my own.
“No.” Calm. How was he suddenly so bloody calm?
“In. And out, Oliver. Just slow your breathing down. It’s just a bit of a panic attack. Nothing that will kill you.”
I snorted. His sarcasm was definitely on point.