Aftermath

It oozes through you. Thick and menacing, like paint poured over a sponge.

Guided by decades of desire, generations of excess.

Seeping, weeping, filling up space that doesn’t need filling.

A conversation in an elevator.

Rumbling, churning, bubbling, bursting.

Pressure. Pain. The scream of machinery worked long past its limits.

And then it dissipates. A whisper drowned in a chorus. And all you feel is fear.

Fear and the dread of knowledge.

Quick… make the call.

They fixed it, they said. You were lucky, they said. On your way, they said.

Just keep taking the red and blue pills.

You’ll be fine.

You watch it wrap around you, squeezing, pulsing, constricting.

A rubber boa urged on by panic.

You exhale, desperate to ignore the beating of distant drums.

The thrum of your own mortality.

The numbers don’t lie. You are fine.

But trust is a difficult thing to attain. No, the numbers don’t lie.

But you do.

You are fine. But are you really?

People, both new and familiar, fill you with things, their things. Their understanding.

A thousand voices swirling together, like leaves on the wind. But you only hear one.

You nod because you know you should. You smile because they want to see it.

Moving forward. That is the plan. We all must move forward, and we never look back.

You inch forward and take those first clumsy steps. A newborn. Reborn.

But the gears click and grind and protest. Not today.

That little red warning light appears. Something is not quite right. Changed.

Not your heart, though. They fixed it, remember? But something.

Something is broken.

The steps crumble as you descend, your hands tracing the cold, dark walls.

Embracing it like a child embraces a parent that scolded them.

You know of this place. Have seen it in your dreams, in the languid words of others.

It is familiar and it is terrible, and it wraps you in a blanket of disquiet.

It is your new home.

You take a drive, to go… nowhere. You take a drive, to be… somewhere else.

And you welcome the hum of the engine and the claustrophobic cabin.

It is a distraction, a place to focus. A place where you can escape your constant pondering?  

Constant pandering to thoughts of… What if?

We did a great job, they said. You’re lucky, they said. On your way, they said.

Don’t stop taking those pills.

You’ll be fine.

The faces are there. Smiling and crying and laughing. For you.

Their voices calling your name, eager and supportive. Distant.

Tugging at your ears, you wonder if they’ve stopped working.

Because the messages are no longer clear. No longer valid.

Only your voice is heard. And it roars its violence, its loathing.

It has something to say, and it will not be silenced.

A broken record.  

Stop. Please.

A hand on your shoulder. A tear on your cheek. The words of a loved one.

Their voices drifting in and out, riding a wave that engulfs you.

Their arms smother you, warm you. Console you.

You suck at the sterile air, clawing at it with your lungs. Bitter in the mouth.

Hope.

You are not fine.

But you will be.