Every one knows. Everyone at school knows my case. Everyone trys to trigger me, and when I'm startled by it they snigger and tease. I sometimes wonder why I even go in. The teachers are full of time wasting crap and the kids full of endless tricks. But then, I know my life story will always have a focal point.point that, however hard I try, will not vanish in the night, fly away to some secret island. Writing this, I have one thought. More like a sound, I should say.

*Tick* ... *tick* ... *tick*
And so, it begins.


3. Finally, it made sense

When I was born, I was as normal as the next person- sorry, baby. For a while I was, at least. Then things started to become complex, I refused to go to places, always muttering something that my parents couldn't piece together.

Then one day, everything made sense. It was like there had been a cloudy lens in-front of our eyes for 4 years, and now that it had been removed, things were clearer; like the answer had been right in front of us all that long time, we just hadn't seen it.

It was a Saturday, and Mum took me on a shopping trip to Herder Square Shopping Centre, which she mostly did alone because of all the hassle I make, but she had no choice as Dad was working away that weekend, and she thought she would be able to calm me by buying me a Polly pocket doll. Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy.

We'd nearly gotten throughout the whole 4 hours with no tantrums but a McDonald's clown scaring me a little and me running into Mum's legs whilst she was queuing up.

We were onto our last shop, which was Habitat, and I chose to wait outside since I didn't like the smell of their furniture. I slumped down against the glass window (mind you, I was only 6) and waited. That's when it started - my panic attack.

Next to Habitat was an antiques shop, full of  intricate, wooden and unique furniture. It held a variety of odd gifts and ornaments, from carefully carved wooden drawers and wardrobes with tiny cold bronze handles to round, hatched fruit or incense bowls.

But at the very front, just where you enter to your left, there is a small but loud birchwood cuckoo clock. The cuckoo only comes out every twelve hours, but you can here it in there. Ticking every second of every day.


It began really slowly, and to me it just felt like I was sleepy. Slowly but surely, the people passing me by where starting to ship-shape, and swirl, and catapult into the air. All colours merged to be one, until all I could see was the a swarm of nothingness, but at the same time, everything. I couldn't make sense of it; my mind wouldn't function. While this was happening, large ticks dominated my ears, on and on and on and on and on. One in my left, one in my right ear, one in my left ear, one in my right. The never-ending clicks were fast and intense, changing ears and back again after each one. My head swiveled left and right, a little late for each click. I could still hear the shopping centre noise in the background swirling around, but those ticks were fierce and forceful.

And then's when it all became too much. My head dropped to my knees. I wasn't unconscious  but I was good as. Mum found me a minute later, but by then tears were wetting my clothes and I'd pulled half my hair out.


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