Focus

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Summary: Dealing with the norm.

AUTHOR: Jaik
EMAIL: jaik@cryptoffic.com
RATING: PG-13
CHARACTER: Jon Wood, Jon POV
SERIES: The Fabulous Life of.
WORD COUNT: 1,885
DISCLAIMER: I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
DEDICATION: ADD & OCD sufferers
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I sympathize greatly with Jon Wood and Steven Wallace, I don't have Tourette's Disorder, but I'm about as borderline ADD as you can be without being clinically diagnosed. When it comes to OCD though...I count things you wouldn't even notice and I have the most insane methods of symmetry, ask Cat.
AUTHOR'S NOTE2: ~*~ denotes passge of time.
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Smile. Nod. Say hi. Turn around and wave. Wait, did I say that sponsor right? What's next? I forgot to turn off that drippy faucet. Will we qualify good? Gas has gone up again, hasn't it? Where did that dog go? Isn't this supposed to be in this drawer over here? How come I can't find the remote?

“Jon!” his voice commands. I snap my head up and lock eyes with a man scary enough to stop a reaper.

“S-sorry. Was I doing it again?” I don't even realize what's going on. It's just things that matter and I think about them. Like am I laughing enough? Was that the right amount of water to drink yesterday? Should I start taking vitamins and working out? How come I can't do a back flip like Carl? Will the glass ever be half-full?

“Jon! Stop doing that!” He orders. I look up into my therapist's eyes again and I try to keep attention on them. They're so simple to look at. Blue. Round. Cornea, iris, pupils, retina, sclera. Two. Cold. Cold like ice...does he hug his wife or kiss her? Do they have any kind of emotional display at all? Could a man like this really even have emotion much less show it? Is his wife a good cook? Can she make a good casserole? Does she hum when she does his laundry? Do I need to do laundry? Should I go buy a few new shirts? When was the last time I went shopping?

“Jon. Stop. Look up at me.” He raises his pen and touches it to his nose.

“I was just wondering about laundry.” Just listen to him. Nothing else. Focus on his voice. It's the only voice. Shut out all the other voices, they don't matter. They're not louder than his. His voice is the one talking now. He talks and I listen. After I listen, I respond. Laundry has nothing to do with our conversation.

“Good, now, as I was saying.” He shuffles his feet and rumples the rug under them. Is he going to fix it? He's not going to leave it there. No one can ignore that chaos; it needs to be in order. Surely he'll reach down and fix it. Wait, the rug doesn't matter. He's being serious. Pay attention to him. Because he is being serious, and I shouldn't call him Shirley. That's such a funny movie. I wonder if I could find it on DVD. Maybe I'll find it on eBay or maybe Amazon. Oh! And Johnny Dangerously too! Should I stop racing? Every time I get into a car, I might die. Is there an afterlife? I miss Dead Like Me. Maybe a channel will start to replay it. Hmm, what would it be on though? Most likely Showtime again, or another HBO channel. Why do we need AM *and FM? Why can't we just have one big M? Some M&M's would be really good about now. I'm hungry, I wonder if that sandwich is still in the fridge at the shop. Maybe it was tuna. Does the fridge miss having that sandwich there if it's gone now? Can a fridge feel? Does it feel as cold as this guy does? Maybe it just wants to be friends with a water heater.  Or possibly a bath tub. They'd share similar experiences wouldn't they? Or would the tub get along better with the water heater since they both play with hot water so much. It'd be fun to get in the hot tub right about now.

“JON!” This time he hollers and stamps his foot, throwing the rug into further disarray.

I can't believe he's just ignoring the rug. Look at it, totally knocked asunder, what if it wanted to be laid our straight? Who is he to just rearrange the rug's personal space?

“Jon, look at me.” His voice is controlled again and he tries to get me to acknowledge him but I'm horrified that he doesn't feel he should be fixing the rug. Someone really ought to let him know that the rug didn't want to be rumbled, or else it would have been born as a tassel.

“Jon, look at me, *now.” His voice is starting to strain and I can hear his patience wearing.

I could just reach over and fix the rug quickly, but what if it doesn't want to be fixed by me? What if the rug wants Mr. Shuffly-feet to apologize for disturbing his resting place by fixing the wrinkles? What if the rug feels just like I do? What if it's sick of being pushed around by all the voices and people? Maybe it just wants a simple cure to fix it all. One that doesn't require being altered or changed. A way that will just make the wrinkles go away forever and never come back or be noticed again.

“Now! Jon!” He screams.

“NO! FIX THE RUG FIRST!” I explode violently; I feel the blood hurdle to my head as I stand straight up; feeling the head rush as I get woozy and fall back against the couch. “It doesn't want to be messed up anymore...just fix it. Please. I don't want anymore wrinkles.”

He nods quietly and scribbles something onto his clipboard. Why can't he just tug it into its proper place? Even a small kick to put it closer to its origins. The thoughts begin to cease as I watch him reach down and gingerly set the rug back to its starting position.

“Thank you.” I say quietly. I feel unbelievably ashamed of myself for such outrageous actions.

Maybe tomorrow will be different if I can just keep from getting wrinkled.

~*~

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep. I try to focus on just the beeping of the alarm, but I start to hear the beeps turn to words. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Rise and shine. Rise and shine. Rise and shine. Jon. Jon. Jon. Get up. Get up. Get up.

“There's not really words.” I mutter burying my head into my pillow. The beeps slowly come back as I shut out the words. After listening to the beeps for a few more seconds I finally reach up and stop the alarm.

I sit up but keep the covers with me; it's always so cold when I first wake up. I take my nightshirt off and wad it up to throw it at my ceiling fan's switch. It cannonballs through the air to grab onto the switch and flip it off for me. I snuggle back down into the covers waiting for the fan to stop.

As it slows I watch the knicks and knacks of my room stop fluttering. They were all doing their simple breezy dance as the wind caressed them. But now they get to rest until tonight when I turn the fan back on and they start their nightly ballroom affair again.

Cautiously I push my covers off and suck in a quick breath as the cool air of the room rushes to greet my skin. I watch my skin react with goose bumps; they trail up and down my chest as the feelings reach farther up me.

A quick glance at my calendar tells me that I have practice later. It's at 2:30...I wonder what I'll do till then. First things first though, shower.

I amble around my room grabbing clothes and heading for the bathroom. I turn the corner and yank open the hall closet finding every towel known to man. Why do I have so many of these things? Maybe it's a towel family reunion and they all decided it would be a good idea to have it here since I'm not home that often.

No. They didn't they don't think. They don't act. They're towels, inanimate. There is no reason to personify them. Yet I still can't help but feel they are gathered here for some greater reason.

I make it to the bathroom finally and I toss my stuff onto the counter. My razor skids across the marble and lands in the sink, clanking about until it comes to rest under the drippy faucet. It lays there unmoving, getting slowly covered in water with the drips escaping the plumbing. Maybe it's taking a shower because it knows I'm going to get it messy by shaving.

I leave it in the faucet's fall and I reach for the tub's faucet. I turn the water up to a warm temperature and I push the little plug down. “I haven't taken a bath in forever.” I mumble to myself. “It'll be nice at least.” I mutter to the curtain as I push it out of the way.

The tub fills up and I slide down into it. The heat from the bath soothes my tensed body. It feels like I've been wound around a yo-yo too long and I'm finally getting the chance to just uncurl and relax.

Slowly I can feel myself slide down further into the tub. Feeling the water roll up my torso, neck, and then starting to envelop my head.  It feels so nice to just be here in the quiet; no voices talking to me or telling me that something is out of place. Nothing to count or distract from what’s happening here around me.

The water sways softly and I feel as though I’m in a hammock with a warm breeze. Or in the ocean on a small boat. As the heat rises off the water and hits me in the eyes, I can feel how tired and achy my eyes really are. It shocks me that even though I just woke up I feel as if I haven’t slept in days; months even.

I let the warm water continue to sway and lull my eyes shut. I feel the trance-like state of being between sleep and alertness pull me down. I don’t fight the dark feeling, I jump head in. It’s truly, only me that can be here in this place. No one else can enter; it's my own perfect little sanctuary. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Here I'm safe. Here, I'm on my own for once. There's no way the voices can get to me here. All I hear is my thoughts. They're swirling around in a turbulent flurry of chaos, each its own destructive force; capable of changing the world. Slowly I try to bring them to a stop. I can see each come to a halt, one by one they drop to the ground until its covered in debris.

Stepping forward I examine the ruin that lay before me. Everywhere I look I see confusion, disorganization, and entropy.

Where else is there to start but the beginning?

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Jaik - jaik@cryptoffic.com