Nicholas & Matilda (Chapter 12)

Nicholas & Matilda is a short story I am working on about a writer who suffers from a panic disorder. The story is based in London, but panic disorders and other mental health issues span beyond London into every community worldwide. People are often paralyzed by mental illnesses and need actual help, regardless of the culture they come from or belong to. I hope this story, in its little way, raises an awareness.

Dad is watching the news in the living room when I get to Nick’s flat.

            “He’s in his room,” he says, standing up and hugging me. He squeezes my arms, packs his board game and leaves.

            Nick is at his desk, resting his head in front of his open laptop.

            He is asleep. I softly pat his back and he stirs but carries on sleeping.

            It is unusual. Nick never sleeps except in his bed or on the sofa and even then, he is such a light sleeper. He hasn’t heard me open the front door. He hasn’t heard my conversation with dad. He hasn’t heard me walk into the room. He is barely feeling me touch him.

            I go into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. The bottle of Aponal isn’t there. I walk back to the bedroom and look around on his desk and the bedside tables. It’s not there either.

            I find it in the kitchen, on the table beside half a glass of water.

            I know Nicholas would never abuse his medication, but I open the bottle anyway and look down at the light blue pills which still fill it.

            I go back to the bathroom and put the bottle in the cabinet. I watch him asleep, his head resting on the desk and I fear the panic attack might have been serious.

I am making dinner when he wakes up at about 8pm. He sits at the table with a weary smile, trying to appear strong for me.

            I cannot understand what he is so scared of; two good books with good reviews, a lovely flat with a brand new kitchen, travelling Europe to do readings, founding small cells of We Write which hold monthly in seven cities across the UK.

            I cannot understand why he puts so much pressure on himself; why he panics and frets and complains and doesn’t let himself be happy. It makes me sad.

            We eat pasta and talk about our day. We do not mention the panic attack. We do not mention that my father came to check on him because I was very worried. We do not mention the Aponal in the medicine cabinet.

            We eat and drink freshly squeezed Florida Sweetness orange juice and talk about unimportant things.