Eyes are closed. Checking posture. Breathing deep, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat…
You walk, and the distinguishable person takes you by the hand, walking down the sidewalk and not saying a damned thing. It’s okay. You’re comfortable. You’re at ease. There is no tension or awkwardness. You’re simply walking–down the street, upon the sidewalk, hand-in-hand–into the morning. The sun rises hastily without second guessing the repercussion of speeding up time in what feels like a stop-motion film.
Upon day breaking, you are welcomed to a vast parking lot where your counterpart leaves you with a simple smile, a silent goodbye. You stand there with your items in the bag that’s wrapped around your body. There is a great sense of feeling safe since everyone around you now has a visible face, and you recognize the vast majority. No one is wearing costumes or uniforms to signify some occult nonsense; at first some worry had crossed your mind since everyone appears to be holding either a red balloon, a white balloon with indistinguishable blue insignia, or both. You come across your family, but you make conversation with your father, and the words are incoherent until an alarm sounds–you cannot personally hear it, but its sounding is mentioned to you–and the white balloons are let go. With the exception of a few people holding onto them still, the white balloons with the blue icon slowly float towards the sky. The holders of the red balloons float into the air and disappear.
You get into an argument with your father, who insists you take his red balloon. There aren’t many of those left. Unlike the white counterparts, the red balloons prove their buoyancy by simply staying put until someone (deserving) takes one in their hand. Your father insists that you take his balloon, because–you are told this–you’ll be safe. If and should you choose to stay, there is a significant chance you’ll be killed. After an argument with your father, you convince him that you’ll be fine and he should go. You know what to do despite not actually knowing.
Moving around the white balloons, you weave through them carefully due to not knowing what would happen should you come into contact with one at this point. Some people are holding them, but that doesn’t convince you that it is safe. The people around begin walking to a caravan of yellow (school) buses, and you and your father head in that direction. With a last ditch effort, you pat your father upon the shoulder, talk to him, tell him you’ll be fine no matter what happens all the while you’re tying the red balloon to him. Your father is convinced and accepts your decision. Before he realizes that you’ve tied the balloon to him, his feet lift off the ground, and his person is sent up and on his way to safety.
You don’t give a damn about anyone else around you, because you simply don’t trust them; and focusing on that worry doesn’t get the best of you. You walk through strings of hovering, paused white balloons. Their strings tickle your exposed skin, and some offer a slight burn. The focus is your leaving, and you don’t care to stop and find out if these strings singing your skin are bitter cold or hot.
Making your way to one of the buses, aiming for one of the first ones as everyone else may be, you hope the automobile isn’t crowded. Instead, you enter the first bus that you come across that you feel most comfortable with. The roof isn’t tall at all, and it’s more like a crawlspace that is filled with annoying strangers. It’s almost like you’re in the head of some random movie star that you admire.
No, not that familiar.
You stick your body out of the Emergency Exit roof hatches that have been removed for safety. You feel others around you, moving around as if you are wading in a pool filled with fish. The people aren’t slimy, but their movements don’t make you feel any more comfortable in the slightest. You feel others trying to join you, but you palm their faces and push them away. This ride needs to get going, or else going mad may be and will be the only option.
The bus starts to move on its way. Soon your other palm is filled with a face, preventing another intruder from entering your space. With both hands occupied with persistent heads, you feel vulnerable as the swarm of people begin to stop due to these people and their inability to move. Feeling hands grab at your ankles and calves, you bend your knees to step on hands successfully. With all your limbs occupied, you have no choice but to feel numerous people–a coup–latch onto your person like leeches. Luckily, it’s not your blood they want–no, not yet–but they want your endurance to break. You feel hands start pulling at your clothing in attempts to drag you down. Hands and arms lurch up and these tentacles wrap around your own like constrictors.
You give in and lower yourself to the angry coup, and everyone leaves you alone after you are pushed aside. You’re bag sprawls across the floor, and you crawl frantically to get it and witness another grab the strap. The demonic grin worn by the other spreads rapidly. Feeling for the contents of the bag while trying to gain possession of it, the pair of scissors are found.
To gain control of your bag, what do you do next?
Attempt to flip the bag up so the butt of the scissors hits the attacker square in the nose?
Attempt to push the scissors–the pointy end (of course)–into the hand of the attacker?
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald