Phobia

By Krista Lester

© 2009

 

 

            Suicide occurs when an irrational fear of continuing to live outweighs the rational mind’s natural fear of death.

Pavement bumps beneath rubber three feet below my ass.  I can’t believe I’m on the bus again.  How long has it been?  I don’t think I’ve been on the bus since before the incident.  What was that, six, seven months ago?  Whenever it was, it’s best to avoid thinking about it.  It’ll be a long bus ride if I get started.

The incident.  Why do I always think of it that way?  Am I still afraid to call it by name?  I thought I talked that through in therapy.  What a waste of money that was, except for being able to get on the bus again.  I need to stop thinking about it as an incident.  Why can’t I just remember how much I loved her?  Why does it have to be shaded with so much dread?

I remember what it was like before.  I remember coming home from class and seeing her sitting on the futon, her fuzzy blue slippers crossed at the ankles on top of the coffee table.  She was the only woman who could look sexy in sweats, just lounging around the apartment, watching TV when she should’ve been in class.

Is that a smile?  I haven’t felt one of those in a long time.  So, I guess it’s not impossible.  I have good memories somewhere.

            Fear, in essence, exists as the body’s method of avoiding those stimuli which cause any one of varying degrees of discomfort dependent upon the health and strength of the subject’s central nervous system.

Why do I read this crap? Why here?  There are no real answers here.  And all these people keep bumping into me, brushing sweaty extremities against my skin, sharing loud conversations about important nonsense.  It’s too distracting.  But not distracting enough to take my mind off the itching where my boxer shorts snagged on the inside seam of my pants when I sat down.

Outside, flashing images of green and yellow converge upon a collage of blue and white.  The world looks like a rushing mosaic, passing my field of vision fast enough that I barely realize what I’ve seen before it’s gone.  My eyes blur, then refocus on scratches in the window.  All I can read is an A and a Z interspersed with a lot of unrecognizable symbols.

            The nervous system anticipates negative outcomes by projecting adrenaline through the body to warn the subject of an oncoming attack.  Adrenaline is nature’s alarm system.  Those who cannot tolerate large quantities of adrenaline running through their systems experience fear to the extent that it overrides the ability to exist within established guidelines of society.

            The bus stops quickly and bodies jerk forward, then back, in unison.  Two girls with long hair get on the bus, push through a clump of people standing near the door, and stop to my right.  One grabs the handle on the back of my seat.  The other stumbles as the bus resumes motion.  When she rights herself, giggling, she grabs a handful of the first girl’s sleeve.  A familiar scent creeps through my sinuses, causing stabs of pain in my chest.

            Fear manifests itself in repetitive images, nightmares, physical shaking, sweating, shouting.  The instances of fear . . .

            “Anyway, I think his name was like Jared or Jerome or something like that.  But, anyway, it didn’t matter.  I mean, he was so hot.”

            “You didn’t . . . ?”

            Chatter, chatter, chatter, giggle, giggle, giggle.

            The girls with long hair make me feel nauseous.  One is brunette.  The other is brunette-turned-blonde, that familiar shade of blonde.  I want to lean in to smell her hair, but, in another way, I feel like I’m going to vomit.  The itching eases with subtle movement beneath the awkward snag.

            “Yeah, I did.”

            “And you didn’t even know his name?”

            “Nope.”

            “Well?”

            No matter which side I sit on, the sun always picks that side of the bus to streak through and harass me, warming my blood to an uncomfortable temperature somewhere over seventy-five degrees.  It’s not like I can relax and glorify in the sunlight like the trees that bow and creak silently as I roll by.  Trees don’t have central nervous systems.

            “Well, what?”

            “Well, how was it?”

            Why do they insist on speaking so loudly?  Do they want the whole world to know they’re a couple of low-life whores?

            Fear is . . .

            “It wasn’t.”

            “It was.”

            Fear is necessary.  When fear does not exist, there is chaos.  If there were no fear, there would be no reason for man to fear punishment.  He could kill, steal, and molest without fear of guilt or retribution.  Fear is the motivating . . .

            “. . . twelve times in five days.”

            “Twelve?  How do you do it?  I mean, it’s like you’re some kind of, oh, I don’t know, you’re like . . .”

            The blonde’s hair brushes against my skin, a dull smattering of dried wheat, and my nervous system reacts.  I jump, gasp, breathe, breathe, breathe.  The breathing becomes more difficult with each convulsion of my lungs.  I hate it, but I want more.  I watch her push her hair behind her ear with nectarine fingernails.

            I remember gentle tears of guilt in the few minutes preceding the incident.  I pushed Andrea’s hair off her face and behind her ears, leaving sideways wet streaks across her face.  It was the last time I saw that light emanating from behind her head, the assurance that she was the one, the faith that she would always be there for me.

            “. . . so I think I might go back there.  I mean, if there are more of these guys, I sure as hell want to meet them . . .”

            The bass from someone’s earphones permeates the stillness in the air as the air-conditioning exhales and stutters.  Thump.  Why do these kids insist on listening to music that loudly?  Thump thump.  Don’t they know their music interrupts my personal reading time?  Of course they know.  They just don’t care.  Thump.  It’s not like I could possibly be bothering them.  I’m just sitting here, trying to understand.  Thump thump.

            Stupid kids.

            Occasionally, an experience with fear lingers into death, causing a death-mask gesture of horror imprinted on the subject’s face.  In these cases, the subject was killed at the precise moment when he realized the outcome of a deadly situation.  In one such case, a man in Delaware was killed by a bullet through the heart just as his attacker . . .

            “I still can’t believe it.  I mean . . .”

            . . . just as his attacker . . .

            Is that a bug?

            . . . just as his attacker approached . . .

            Three different cell phones ring at once, playing partial songs that I can only guess are supposed to be funny for the instant before voices scream gleeful greetings into the sticky air.

            Thump.

            . . . just as his attacker approached from behind . . .

It is a bug.  What the hell kind of bug is that?  Why is that girl’s hair still brushing against my arm?  You would think people standing in the aisles would at least be conscious of how their bodies affect others.  Or maybe they don’t care because they’re jealous of all the people who got seats.  They want to create a miserable experience for everyone.  Or is it just me?  It’s probably just me.  And it’s probably somehow my fault.

The greens and yellows, blues and whites begin to swirl and mesh, the clearly distinguished barriers between colors, places, living, breathing objects blur and fade.  My eyes open wider, squint, stare, attempt to decipher and burn meaningless pictures into my retinas.

It all happens so fast.

Thump thump.

            It’s so tiny.  I can barely see it.  Where’d it go?  Oh, there it is again.  I can only see it when it moves across one of the spaces surrounding the words.  What the hell am I going to do with this bug?  If I were outside, I’d just flick it to the side, but here, I’d be flicking it right into the girls in the aisle.  It might bounce off them and back onto me.  On my other side, some fat lady nods her head forward, catches herself mid-snore, then shoots upright before it starts all over again.  She’s sweating even in her sleep, even though I would much prefer that she keep her arms and legs to herself so I wouldn’t feel that rubber sliminess rubbing against me.

            Stop.  Concentrate.

            Fear represents a barrier man must learn to approach with . . .

            Well, I guess I am getting warm.  And itchy.  Very, very itchy.

            Where’d it go?  Oh.  It’s nearing the edge of the page.  What the hell am I going to do?  God, that lady smells awful.  I’m going to have to brush it off the page.  But I don’t want to touch it.  Shut up already, it’s just a little bug, smaller than a flea.  Go ahead, just brush it off.

            I can’t do it.

            Thump.

            I can already feel the sticky legs pressing against my finger so lightly that it’s near non-existence is enough to bite just at the edge of my nerves.  I can feel it, I can see the spider in my mind, crawling beneath my fingernail and dying there, wedged between the nail and the skin too far for me to get it out without removing the whole fingernail.  And even after it’s dead, I know I’ll still feel hundreds of legs.  I know it’s just eight, but I can’t convince my brain.  I’ll have to blow it off.  Where should I blow it?  It’s edging closer to the end of the page.  If it reaches the edge, I’ll lose track of it forever.  What then?  I can’t read anymore.  That’s it.  I’m just going to have to blow it off the page.  Here I go.

            Shit.

            Where’d it go?  It’s too dark in here.  What happened to the sunlight?  What happened to the sunlight?  I can’t see where it went.  Am I sweating?  I can’t believe I’m afraid of a little bug.  I wish I could’ve killed it, but then I would have had bug guts all over my book, and I still wouldn’t have been able to read.

            Where the hell did it go?

            God, that girl’s hair is itching my arm.  Or is it the bug?  How would it have gotten all the way over there?  I blew it off the page.  It could have gone anywhere.  Is it hot in here?  What is that stench?  I move my head from side to side, trying to find a pocket of fresh air.

            I need to calm down.

            Thump.

            Sweat oozes down my spine, staining the waist of my pinstriped pants and the back of my pressed green shirt.  Why do I buy this color?  It’s the color of my eyes, she used to say.  You should wear that color more often.

            I need to focus.

Thump thump.

            Fear represents a barrier man must approach with care.  In most cases, man will resist the temptation to act out against the offending subject.  However, there are times when the barrier falters, throwing man into action.  As if a switch has been flipped inside the brain, man will attack without foresight, plunge himself into battle with the antagonist.  When the barrier fails, psychological trauma ensures.

            There it is, it’s on my leg.  Or is that the girl’s hair?  Andrea’s hair used to end up in single strands woven into my toes or my arm hairs, but I never minded until after she was gone.  The hair just kept appearing.  Stop it.  I’m beyond her, beyond that, I’ve moved on.  I’ve grown past that moment when life exploded into a spatter of sparkler-like spitting, spinning through the air, taking my mind, my love, her death, my fear into a world where darkness exhausted and consumed, wrung my hope into a limp wet rag that’s mopped too much sweat to absorb any more.

            It’s back.

            On my leg, on my arm, on my back, on my cheeks, is my hair too long or too short, too cold, too hot, is it wet from my shower ten hours ago or wet from sweat?  I think it’s the sweat of the woman beside me.  It must be soaking from her legs into the seat, through my pants and up my spine, only to ooze back out, drip by drip by solitary drip as it gets larger, more intolerable, more unstoppable, and itchy.

            I need to get back to the book.

            Thump.

            I can’t breathe.

            I need to get back to the book.  Concentrate.  I can’t let it get to me.  I can’t live like this.

            The fear of death . . .

            I can’t read.  It hurts my head, hurts my eyes, hurts my brain, hurts my toes.  Damn that infernal itching.  Scratch, scratch, scratch, the scalp skin peels and flakes, pierced by my jagged fingernails.

            “I know, right?  Can you believe it?”

            Shuffle, shuffle, cough, sniffle, shove.

Are they getting off?  They are, there’re getting off the . . . no, wait.

Damn.

            It’s on my arm.  No, the bottom of my left foot.  I can see the woman’s legs beside me, flattening into a sweaty pool, melting into the plastic.

            What color is that?  Is she wearing . . . she is . . . that’s the same color as my . . .

            “I know, like, olive green.  I mean, how many guys do you know with green eyes?  It’s not like it’s very common or anything.”

            “I know, it’s got to be like, what?  One in fifty dozen?”

            Fifty dozen.  How many is that?  Five times twelve, no, fifty times ten, no, wait, fifty, twelve, dozen, SHIT.

            Dammit, it’s multiplying.

            The front of my ankle, the back of my calf, the front of one knee, behind the other kneecap, inside my ears, I hear buzzing, scurrying, it’s draining all fear of life and death and intense longing for someone other than myself . . . there it is, there it is.

            Thump thump.

No.

            That’s a speck.  Just a speck.  The back of my neck.  Up my nose, in my throat.  I’m thirsty.  Why am I always thirsty?  My skin is dry, too.  I never notice that my skin is dry until I scratch at my arm and the skin turns white, then red, then shows tiny earthquakes that erupt with what’s in between the other skin cells, just more skin cells, just more skin cells, just more . . .

            I can’t fucking take it anymore.  I can’t.

            This is it.

            “How many times?” I asked.

            “I don’t know,” she said.

            “Ballpark it.”  I stared at her, wishing she was either dead or lying.

            “Twelve?”

            “In five days?”  I asked.  I don’t know why.  I guess I wanted to make it worse for myself.

That was right before I told her she was worthless, had always been, would always be worthless, before she threw her clammy stuffed bunny at me and ran from the room and no one she knew ever saw her eyes open again.

            The lady beside me jerks her elbow into my side, sits up straight, turns to me, her eyes look startled and terrified for a second.  I recognize that look.  Kids in the back are screaming, laughing, crying, what are they, twelve?  Eight?  Two?  How old am I?  Where is she?

            I feel them on my spine, crawling up each vertebrae, in the cracks, mutant skin trying to grow around the interruption, trying to surround it so fast that it really only traps it inside.

I’m going to start crying.

            I curl my toes.  My socks are sweaty, I probably smell like shit.  I wouldn’t raise my arms except that I have to scratch my head.  The lady beside me was probably just trying to act like she was falling asleep so I wouldn’t be embarrassed knowing she could smell me, my personal, putrid odor, like the odor of that sock I found molding behind the couch three months ago, the sock whose mate disappeared in the dryer years before I stopped noticing that none of my socks matched anymore.

            Thump.

Fuck.

            I know the bugs aren’t really there.  I stare at the exact spot on my arm where I feel one of the spiders, and I don’t see it there.  Still, I can’t believe myself.  The itching is stronger than the rationalization.  The bugs aren’t really there, aren’t really following the blood through my veins, clogging my arteries like a fat woman’s cholesterol.  I can’t even count on the bugs to kill me, they won’t cause a heart attack, won’t take me away, to her, to then.

            People want out at the next stop.  There’s shoving, rustling, frustrated sighing.  The blonde leans in to let people by, that scent again, her hairs falling in front of my face, I reach for it, grab it, pull it to my nose.

            “Ew, what the hell are you doing?”

            She pulls a little.

            I can’t let go.

            “Driver, we need off the bus.  This pervert is sniffing my friend’s hair.”

            Just one more breath.

            The brakes squeal, the doors open.  The brunette knocks her hand against the side of my head and leads her friend to the door.  “Lunatic.”

            She’s gone.

            The doors clunk closed.  Outside, the sunlight looks dark.  Where am I?  Did I miss my stop?  Am I on the right bus?  How far have I gone?  Why don’t I think to check if I’m on the right bus until I’m halfway home, on the other side of the river?  Which side am I on, anyway?

            Go on, tell me.

            You too, goddammit, you wretched filthy fiends.  You crawled right out of the words on the page, and now you want to show me you’re stronger than me by eating your way into my brain, and itching, itching, itching.  Well, you know what?  I won’t let you win.  I won’t.  I won’t let you.

            Thump thump.

The legs, the multiple hideous legs, one-tenth of a millimeter.

            I can’t take it anymore.  I can’t take it.

Thump.

I want out.

            The distracting bass beat ceases.  All that remains is a broad silence in which there’s nothing to fear but the sound of your whispering.  You know I don’t believe what’s in the book.  I should follow you, ignore my instincts, ignore the desperate feeling of clinging to a dissipating illusion, the longing to be elsewhere, anywhere else, the compression of a piston inside my chest, the deflation, the exhaust of an exhausted existence.