Right There With You: Read On, #2

By Jon-Patric Nelson

Ro, a young Black teen boy, is raised in 2020s Philadelphia where he first experienced the effects of anxiety at the tender age of eight.

 

At the time, he didn't tell anyone about his experience, not even his best friend. All he knew is that he had difficulty breathing and his whole inside bounced around like a pinball. As he gets older he constantly runs into situations that triggers his anxiety, until one day he passes out in front of his parents.

 

His parents bring him to a doctor and Ro receives pills to calm his anxiety. However, the pills are not enough to get rid of the pinball in his stomach because he's still surrounded by all his triggers. Ro also finds out he's not the only one that's having difficulty breathing.

 

Until one day everything changes but how?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon-Patric Nelson
• Release date: Jun 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986059624

Jon-Patric Nelson

Dr. Jon-Patric Nelson enjoys writing stories that inspires and encourages everyone to follow their dreams. Born in Manchester, Jamaica and raised in South Florida. Nelson found inspiration in writing when his older brother introduced him to writing rap lyrics at six years old. Since his introduction, Nelson fell in love with poetry, novels and storytelling. Fast forward. Now , he writes for young adults. He writes stories he would've enjoyed reading when he was a teenager. Stories that are fun, funny, relatable and cool. Nelson is also the author of Enlightened By A Darker Tone and Running For Planet Earth.

Book preview

Right There With You

Right There With You

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Dr. Jon-Patric Nelson

Disclaimer: Scenarios in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Jon-Patric Nelson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Paperback: 979-8-9860596-0-0

NelsonDPT Books

www.jonpatricnelsondpt.com

Ordering Information: Order additional copies at www.jonpatricnelsondpt.com

Printed in the United States of America

For all the Dreamers and Believers

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Right There With You

1

I don’t want to die, so I’m running for my life. Getting stabbed in the neck is scary. Seeing a ghost is really scary, but nothing is scarier than being chased down by Earth—in space. That’s right, space space. No matter how hard I run, it is pitch-black and I am not going anywhere. It’s like I’m on a stationary bike except I’m running, so a stationary run. It actually feels more like I’m flying, so a stationary fly. Either way, Earth is still closing the gap on me. There’s no finish line in sight, just a sea and sky of blackness.

I look over my shoulder and I see bits of green and blue on a big ass ball; it’s Earth, latching onto my back. My body twists up like a Twizzler as I try to break free, but I can’t escape its tight grip. My breath is leaving my body, and it’s waving goodbye. I panic as my heart begins to break through my chest. Hey, Earth, I can’t breathe! But my words are muffled and the grips around my nose and mouth are getting tighter and tighter and tighter.

I’ve never died before but I guess this is where it happens. I jump up from my bed, gasping for air. Sweat is trickling down my neck and seeping into my t-shirt. Nightmares suck. They feel so real but the whole time you’re pissing in the bed. Trust me: been there, done that. I hear our TV exposing the monotony of an infomercial to the living room, The Spinning Shed can be yours for the price of ninety-nine-ninety-nine, it drones.

I bet it’s my dad, Tony, wrapped up in the box filled with moving pictures. Only he turns up the volume on the box way too high. If there were glasses for ears, he’d definitely need a pair. He’s not deaf or anything, but he’s damn close to it. He blames it on the loud music he used to listen to as a kid.

A spinning shed? asks Tony, confusion in his voice.

I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or to someone else. Regardless, I’m as muddled as he is—a spinning shed?

The TV volume dies down, which usually means my mom, Evette, has got a hold of the remote.

It’s too loud. You need to get your ears checked out, Tony. Maybe that good ol’ Dr. Gilbert can refer you to an audiologist he knows.

I’m not going to see Dr. Gilbert. Just stop it, Evette! snaps Tony.

Evette’s laughter fills the room until it’s replaced by the sound of rumbling pots.

She’s laughing because Dad has been dodging Dr. Gilbert all year, ever since he blew off his colonoscopy appointment. It gives me a belly laugh, too. I get why he doesn’t want to go. After all, there’s nothing macho about bending over while someone sticks their finger in your butt. All that tough guy stuff gets thrown out the window.

My attention shifts back to my bedroom. Well, our bedroom. Me and my big-head sister, Amarie.

Ewww! Did you just fart? says Amarie. Her face is in a big twist, while a huge grin is on mine because I know she’s smelling the beans I devoured last night.

Nope. That’s just yo’ top lip.

I can’t breathe, says Amarie as she forces the window open.

Meanwhile, I stop myself from busting out in laughter.

Freakin’ disgusting, says Amarie, gagging like she had the beans stuck in her throat.

The thing is, we share a room, and it’s a matchbox, but when you live in a brownstone, space is not something you really expect. Nobody is like, I need more space, let me move into a brownstone. And if they said that, they must live in their cars. It’s the price we pay for living in the city. I mean, if you live by yourself, it’s okay, but if you must share a room with your sister, just fart so she runs out and you’ll have the room all to yourself.

It’s my parents’ fault for throwing us into the same room. At seven years old, you’re too little to realize that at eleven boys start locking themselves in the bathroom, and by the time you’re a teenager like me, nobody wants to share a room with their sister. I mean, come on, I already have difficulty breathing in big, open spaces, so this jail cell with a roommate isn’t helping.

It’s either share a room with my sister or sleep on the living room couch, says Evette. And I know she’s being sarcastic because there’s no way she wants me ruining our leather couch. So, me and Amarie have made the most of it. Two completely different worlds living within four off-white walls. A silver line of duct tape runs down the middle of the room, with my half on the left. I’m not allowed on Amarie’s side, and she doesn't want to be on mine because I’m a pig.

Amarie’s side looks like one of those fake rooms you’d see in a furniture store: a twin-sized canopy bed on top of a cream frilly rug; clean silky sheets and fuzzy topped pens; a little pink here and there, a little green there and here. Decorative pillows. Make-up products. Earrings. Bangles. Posters of her favorite track star, Allyson Felix. Oh, and she has a window on her side and I don’t. Depending on what she is doing, it’ll either smell like perfume, hairspray, or nail polish. Every other week she’ll crack the window open to let out the nail polish scent when I complain. Her choice of music is R&B. She jams out to Sade, Whitney Houston, and Mariah Carey.

If you tiptoe onto my side, you’ll feel the floor go from smooth to gritty. Crumbs, dirt, and who knows what else will stick to the bottom of