Agoraphobia (ag’or-a’fo’be-a) - n - An abnormal fear of open spaces or public places
Claustrophobia (klos’tro’fo’be-a) - n - An abnormal fear of being in an enclosed or confined place

~*~

The water kept on falling from the sky. The rain kept on dropping onto the roof. The droplets kept on running down the windowpanes. The wind continued to howl and shake the trees. The branches continued to tap against the glass. The leaves continued to fall to the Earth, only to be swept up to fly through the atmosphere. The lightning continued to light up the stormy night.

The thunder continued to rumble through the sky. The abodes continued to shake precariously. The lights continued to flicker. The roads continued to be slippery. The streets continued to be bare. The houses continued to be silent. The Earth continued to be at a standstill. The storm continued to thrash itself across the land like whiplash. The humans continued to be frightened. And whatever animals were in sight, continued to keep close to their owners inside the abodes in which they lived.

And the music continued.

...it’s the end of the world...

And the blonde continued to cry.

Standing at six feet two, the blonde by the name of Nickolas Carter, ‘Nick’ for short, could definitely make an impression and make one think twice about causing him any kind of grief. Granted, he looked sweet and pliable, but most often than not, many underestimated him as formidable. And many didn’t know about his other side, his other personality, somewhat unorthodox, as though he were a Jekyll and Hyde - or your typical star sign of Gemini. But Nick wasn’t a Gemini, the sign of the twins.

No, no - he was an Aquarian, the water bearer. Sometimes, in private, he cried and became so hysterical it would take a hell of a lot of morphine to bring him back out of the land of leprechauns and lullaby’s. And he had a ferocious temper that he usually reserved just for himself. With his cerulean blue eyes that reflected the Mediterranean and his blonde hair that was like sun-kissed spun silk, he looked like he could be anyone’s best friend, or an acquaintance at least. But he wasn’t. He was no one’s friend.

And he was crying. Crying seemed to be the only thing he could do to relieve the pain from his heart.

And nothing felt better than crying.

Nick was curled up in a tight huddle with his back against the wall, staring, almost as though he were hypnotised, at the light flickering above him. His hands were working fast, agile, adroit motions, tying a knot with a white, unused rope. A small chair stood in the centre of the room, above the ceiling fan that was out of action, for Nick hadn’t realised that it hadn’t been working for the last two months. But what did that matter? Fans were only good for one thing, and one thing only, and it wasn’t just for circulating fresh cool air. No, no - entirely the opposite, and for that one thing, for that one reason, Nick was by sure as hell going to put it to great use.

Nick’s body rocked back and forward, his breathing becoming stagnant and him breathing in short, congested patches, almost as though his next breath could be his last, which he hoped with every bone in his whole body that it would be. His eyes were red and swollen from his incessant crying, tears staining and streaking his soft cheeks, his whole body trembling violently. His clothes, which were ratty, brown and old, hung from his shaking figure, while his hands kept twitching at the rope nervously. And that was what looked like the final product - a nervous breakdown.

...it’s the end of the world...

Nick’s crystal, bleak blue eyes caught sight of the cover of a magazine that he had strewn across the room earlier in one of his fits of rage. What was staring back at him made him shake even more, made more tears run down his cheeks, made his blood run cold, made his body freeze. What was staring back at him, indeed, were his rivals - five guys, pop stars, dressed almost identically, not realising how ridiculous they looked as five grown men who had taken tips from someone who lived during the age of Wham, The Pet Shop Boys and Queen when it was barely passable to dress alike.

They stared back at him, and to Nick, it looked like they were taunting him, teasing him, with their eyes, their smiles, their clothes. Everything about them seemed to be teasing him, making fun of him. His eyes tried to look away, but eventually they ended back onto the magazine cover. They were taunting him, teasing him, making him angry, and making him scared, fearful for his life.

And something in him finally snapped.

"Faggots!" Nick screamed. "Fucking faggots! I hate you! I hate you! Faggots! Get away from me! Fucking degenerate, low-life fags!"

His fingers kept wounding themselves around the rope, tying and untying big and small knots in them, twisting and untwisting the rope. The rain continued to drop out of the sky and to the roof, making soft, repetitive music against the timber wood. The lights continued to flicker every time lightning lit up the sky like a magic show, putting everything in sight on full display. Usually Nick would’ve appreciated this electrical storm, for there was always something about a storm that gave him some sort of inner peace. Strange to most, and most usually didn’t get their kicks out of a storm, most were usually afraid.

But not Nick.

Nick liked the fact that a storm could give him something else to concentrate on, something else to think about, something else to focus on, than himself. He hated thinking about himself and how much he seemed to lose his sanity at the drop of a hat. Most walked on eggshells around Nick, not knowing what word or what expression or what kind of silence would make him snap. Most walked on a thin tightrope around Nick, afraid of what he could become.

Oh yeah, just one thing - Nick wasn’t a typical twenty two year-old male. Well, in some aspects he was. He liked to party, he liked to drink, loved to dance, loved to drive his cars, loved to spend his hard earned cash, loved his dogs almost obsessively...so, yeah, on the outside Nick seemed like a typical twenty-something male. However, Nick suffered from some things that kept him from being a normal twenty-something male. A few things made him fearful for his life, made him contemplate existence.

Firstly, he hated being confined. Claustrophobic, was the correct medical term. It was like he was being kept in a small, cardboard box, like he couldn’t breathe. And then, there was the fact that he hated wide, open spaces. It made him paranoid, like someone was out to get him – whether it be a sniper, the CIA, the FBI, or some random psycho who wanted to be the famous one who successfully shot Nick Carter.

Friends and family had tried to help him in the past, but Nick had been so damn stubborn. He continuously refused to see therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, whoever it was they tried to get him to see to get him out of this. Nick had told them repeatedly that he didn’t need help, that anyone and everyone lost their cool from time to time. Though his friends had intelligently pointed out that when Nick went through a bout of hysteria, it wasn’t just him losing his cool.

It was him losing everything, from his voice to his control to his strength. All they needed to do was to leave him alone and let him deal with it his own way, and in time they’d see that he could easily control himself. Yeah, not a hard task at all. Not a difficult thing whatsoever. There wasn’t anything that Nick couldn’t control if he didn’t want to. He could easily snap himself out of hysteria like that.

Yeah - he also suffered from denial.

"They’re out there," he whispered, staring out the window to the storm, watching the lightning light up the night and gazing out across the long, distant field ahead. "I know they are. They’re watching me. Can’t go out...can’t go out...can’t..."

Nick’s fingertips kept twisting and untwisting the rope while he stared outside, thinking that the end was drawing near, his life was coming to a close. There were a few other things he suffered from, too. Sometimes, though he didn’t know why, he hated the sight of himself. Sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he screamed with horror, so much so that he had smashed already ten mirrors in the last two months. Nobody knew why, even he himself didn’t know why, but it was within his system, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His friends remained scared around him, which, yeah, he so loved. And also, what was entirely bizarre was that he hated the sight of two males together. Homophobic he was, was the correct definition, but anyone could tell if they had been in the room just minutes ag

o to witness his hysteria. It was just too much for anyone to see, watch, witness, whatever, and if you had the heart, you’d try and help him through his attacks and ordeals, but if you didn’t...well...hopefully you’d have enough common sense to either call an ambulance or get the hell out of there as quick as possible.

...it’s the end of the world...

Nick turned around swiftly from the window and stared up at the rusty fan that hadn’t been in use, which he had neglected. The light flickered again as another bolt of lightning hit the ground and another clap of thunder shook the earth. A shiver ran all the way down his spine as he held the rope, which was now a noose, in his hand, grasping it tightly and still staring up at the fan with wide, determined eyes. His eyes wandered downward to the small chair that was standing directly underneath the fan, two of its four legs almost broken from age.

A distant, faraway expression crossed his face as he stared at the chair, his mind not registering what exactly his actions were going to be, but loving whatever the hell was going to happen, and stepped forward closer to the chair, his heartbeat racing, adrenalin rushing through his body at a furious pace.

And, he would’ve stepped up if it hadn’t have been for the mirror in front of him and the image that was staring back. The eyes. The hair. The expression. The body. The illness. His hands let go of the rope and he let out a loud scream, both hands covering his eyes.

"NOOOOOOO!"

And with that, he bolted to the mirror, pulled it off the table it was resting on, and threw it to the ground with considerable force. It smashed with a high-pitched shriek and Nick covered his ears, to block out the deafening sound. He felt some sort of relief at the sight of hearing the smashing of the mirror and seeing the shattered pieces that covered the floor.

Nick then flew into action. He picked up the rope off the floor and carefully took to the chair, careful to keep his balance so he wouldn’t fall or break it. He reached up and tied the end of the rope around what looked like a small propeller and watched the rope hang from the fan with a certain amount of glee, the noose in mid air, just waiting for his head to slip right through it. A nice loop it was, just the right size for his head to fit right through. He gave the rope a dramatic pull, just to test its sturdiness.

It seemed to be able to cope. And that was a good thing. Another bolt of lightning and another clap of thunder not only seemed to sear through to the Earth’s core, but to Nick’s as well, making his whole body shake and tremble somewhat insanely. And that was him - insane. So many people had told him that in the past, so many. But what they didn’t realise was that he just didn’t know how to cope, was so alone, was just desperately reaching out for a helping hand that never came.

Nick carefully arranged himself on the chair and looped the noose over his head and tightened it around his neck tightly. He closed his eyes and prayed to God that this would be it, the final straw, the last time he’d have to see that cold light of night. A single tear trickled down his cheek as he bid the quiet, empty room goodbye.

He kicked the chair away with his heel and went sailing toward the floor, hanging just above it, gasping for a breath. A mistake. He’d made a mistake. Suddenly, his conscience came into play. No. He didn’t want to die. Not yet. There were so many things he had to experience, to see, to do, and with all his might, he tried to loosen the noose, but to no avail.

Choking.

He started choking, gasping for breath, strangled moans leaving his throat as he cried for help. "Help...please...help..."

And as though the powers that be above heard his pitiful cries, the rope suddenly snapped and sent Nick sailing to the floor in a crumpling, gasping, choking heap. His chest had tightened to the point that he felt like his heart was about to explode, his air pipes seemed closed over, and when he sat up, the room was spinning, as though he were on a carousel, only much faster, like a race track.

Spinning, spinning, spinning, and the cheerful, happy carousel music resounded in his head, along with his heart beat. And, oh yeah, the walls were also caving in on him, adding to his tormented mind at last...

"HELP!" Nick screamed, pounding heavily on the door, only to find that he was locked in. He kept looking back over his shoulder, as though someone were after him and he just had to get away or else he’d be dead in an instant. "HELP! Get me out! Help! Please! PLEASE! Get me out! I can’t...breathe!"

...it’s the end of the world...

He heard footsteps coming down the hall, several pairs of footsteps, the clunking soles of shoes, several. Did that mean...he had rescuers? Saviours? At last? After suffering long enough, they were going to help him? Relieve him of the pain and suffering he’d been subjected to since the age of sixteen, for six long and agonising years? Was that so? And if so, what was to become of their help? Psychiatric care? A mental hospital? A psych ward? Medication? Injections? Pills? A straight-jacket, maybe? Or what about, all of the above?

 Maybe even a probing therapist, like one of the many thousands he’d seen on account of his friends and had never bothered to go back to after the first session. But maybe...well...maybe now was different. Maybe now he could get himself some help, he didn’t know, but his friends were there and maybe that was all he needed to get by. At least, for now...

Nick repeatedly pounded on the door with his fist, so much so that a bruise would surely begin to form and tears ran down his face, his voice high-pitched and panicky like a five year-old child that had been locked away in an attic for reprimanding while he heard several male voices on the outside.

"Please! Get me out! I can’t breathe! Please! It’s locked! Help me! HELP ME!"

"Come on, Brian, hurry up!"

"It’s the damn key! It’s...jammed!"

Nick screamed loudly in horror while he continued to pound on the door, like he would if he was two and desperately needing sustenance. "HELP...ME!"

"Hurry! He’s hysterical!"

"Get him out of there!"

"Shit, Brian, just turn the key!"

"I can’t! It won’t move!"

"HELP ME! I can’t breathe!"

"Come on, Brian!"

"I’m trying, but it’s jammed!"

"It’s okay, Nick, we’re trying! We’ll have you out of there, just calm down!"

"Get me out! Get me out! Get me out!"

"Brian, I swear to fucking God...!"

"It’s jammed, I’m telling you!"

With one last strangled breath and one more scream for help, Nick’s forehead connected with the wood of the door, sending him sailing to the floor in an unconscious heap, his friends on the outside still trying to break the lock, still calling to him and trying to force their way in.

The lights were still flickering, the rain still falling, the lightning still brightening up the night, the thunder still rolling through the atmosphere, the trees still tapping the glass of the windows, but Nick now silent.

...it’s the end of the world...