I figured I’d throw in the first paragraph about Mark, my short story’s protagonist on here as well. I hope you enjoy it and don’t be afraid to give me some feedback!
Much love. /TPG
Section One: Mark
I have never been normal. Even as a little kid I’d manage to spook my peers with my gloominess. I’d be that kid in the background, completely lost inside my own mind. I think I was around six when my folks dragged me away to meet my first psychiatrist. They brought me there with the hope of me being diagnosed with something. They searched for a reason to why I acted like I did. Why I would sit in my room for hours on end, reading and drawing, but never talking. I had no interest in toys. Or people for that matter. It never really bothered me to be honest. Good riddance. My folks were worried about me though. When the psychiatrist couldn’t find anything mentally wrong with me, “He’s just not ready yet. He’ll communicate soon enough”, my mom cracked. I assume she felt like a lousy parent or something. It wasn’t like I couldn’t talk, I was not slow or anything, I just didn’t feel like talking to people. That first meeting was the beginning of a never-ending quest to find out what was wrong with me. My father just didn’t accept that his son was a sick little shit who didn’t talk at the age of six, so he drove me around all over the country to meet specialists. So I guess you could say that I grew up in waiting rooms. The scenario was always the same.
I would shake hands with a white-coat, sit down. Stare at pictures. Listen and nod. Talk when I had to and then the shrink would shake his head with disappointment and tell my father that there was nothing wrong with me. . I was just an unusually quiet kid. My mom was with us that first, awfully long summer but she couldn’t take it after the sixth visit. She packed her bags while my father shouted and threw stuff around him, even grabbing me at one point and covering my face in saliva: “Talk motherfucker. TALK!”. Naturally, I didn’t. I might’ve been six years old but I was already well aware of what those bottles my father guzzled down like they’re God’s holy nectar contained. I knew that when he reached for the bottle, it was time for me to disappear for a while.
@Alexander Berg Mattsson, 2011