Many Ways

I fly through the door-frame like a hurricane; pelt across the street and round the corner before he can see where I've gone. I would love to keep running until my lungs fail, but my car-keys are still on his desk. There's nowhere to go. I stop. Panic. Feel like I always do on days like this – I'm autumn leaf floating haphazardly along the pavement, ready to be whisked up by the next strong breeze. I lean on the wall behind me and my palms lick sharp brick. He's not going to do anything, I tell myself defiantly. These intimidation tactics are getting old.

Screw him.

I collect myself, Breathe, straighten my shoulders, and peek back round the corner. And there he is, standing in the doorway like a disobeyed king, knife in fist, scowl firmly fixed in place. My body tenses like an angry cat's and I AM that angry! Furious perhaps.

OK. Think fast – you need to get your keys but you also need to not get killed. I look up and he's lurching towards me. He's spotted me. I'm dead. No-one on this road of unknowns would answer if I knocked. Not even some lost souls wandering the streets on this pale Thursday dawn. I turn, run. What else can I do?

I stray into that dodgy estate and duck down behind a parked car. I don't know if he saw me. I'm crouched, hiding, and suddenly I realise: I've ran myself into a dead-end and the terraced houses are tall as prison walls. Not wanting to look up in case he sees me, I stare at the car's shoddy bodywork and bald tyres. And now my life just seems rather stupid. I mean, what am I doing? How the hell did it get this bad?

I'm there a while before I start to cry. Frustrated, bleak tears, for a future shrouded in days like these. He's out there somewhere, I can feel it, and my inner strength's upped and left. It must have been slowly eroded as he took it bit by bit. Like just now, when he handed me his machete and invited me to use it on myself. Every time he silently slid the bolt on his bedroom door, put the keys in his pocket, and turned round to face me. Whenever he screamed “THIS IS WHAT YOU DO TO ME!”, he was actually stealing me. The insecure, fat man stole me. Everything I was, I'm not anymore, so what am I now? Someone who hides behind cars because she chooses to go out with psychopaths, that's what I am.

I should have taken the knife.

My legs start to moan. Can you still grow at eighteen? Maybe a few hours asleep just aren't sufficient for dealing with this level of abuse come morning. My body can't physically cope. I can vividly hallucinate some lunatic launching himself from a nearby door, accusing me of trying to nick his car: a criminal judging me on his own past mistakes. I'm not strong enough for a two-pronged attack.

On the numb trudge back, the ghost-roads are glittering with neglect. Strewn rubbish decorates the street and the wood-masked windows stare back. This world stinks. I've known the truth a long time, but never had such certainty clarified by someone else. I guess I should resign myself to that cliche and remember to thank him.

When I get to the front door, it's shut. I know from experience that it's unlocked, so his customers can come and go without disturbing the faceless strangers who share his kitchen. The curtains are drawn tight and I wish I could tell if he was still in there. I'm desperate he's not, so I can get my keys and drive home, never looking back. But another part of me, the part that's as realistic as it is pessimistic, knows he's in there and waiting. There's no point in hoping. He's probably still holding the knife.

I turn the knob and enter the corridor, ready for whatever I've got coming. I don't care anymore. I'm exhausted and this is it. Hot tears dive off the end of my chin, leaving my wet cheeks to freeze. Inside, I'm just empty and dead. That's what keeps circling in my mind. That I'm already dead. I'm already dead. I'm already dead.

When I push open the door to the bedroom, I find out I'm right. He's there, looking no different to normal. Pro Evolution Soccer's on the television screen and he's just sitting there, with his back to me, playing the game. The lights flash obnoxiously; the commentary rabbits away. I just stand there for a few seconds, taking it all in. He presses pause; turns to look at me.

“Alright?... What ya go runnin off for?”, he smiles in a benevolent, puzzled way, like he honestly doesn't know. “Want some of this?” He holds up a big, well-rolled spliff. I take it and sit behind him on the bed, while he restarts his game and rotates back to face it. I'm out of his vision - the eye of the storm - and understanding melts through me.

There are many ways of being dead.

Spamming and Examming

I have reached the final cone of the egg timer.

My fingertips are trembling with pent-up pressure.

When I stop typing I can physically feel the time being wasted, even as I contemplate its passing. I procrastinate by letting thoughts about the nature of time take over.

For the Hopi Indians of Native America, present moments are also the dreams of the future and the efforts of our past. Time's a process of accumulation, of built-up hopes and best-laid plans.

My body's jittering away the remaining moments of my life.

I'm spending long minutes studying the expressions on far-off faces as they stare at space, chat trivially, be as unproductive as I'm being. I want to know what they're thinking. Are they faced with facts anywhere near as boring, as complicatedly mundane, as those I'm being forced to learn?

Did I pick the wrong degree?

I like to watch until their sixth sense twitches and they glance back. You can watch some people for a very long time without them noticing. Some seem to be missing peripheral vision; others preen out of the secret knowledge that I'm watching. Boring, ordinary exhibitionists.

I keep finding myself drifting into gloriously gory fantasies involving the fuckwits in my immediate vicinity. They're only whispering at each other, but it's as loud as thunder, lost at sea. I get up and go to the loo. Not because I really need to. Just so it's one of those things that happens - taking up precious time by acting human. When I return, these tedious cretins behind me continue to whisper and titter; about what, I can't make out. This slight annoyance sparks a forest-fire of misdirected rage. It's not their fault, I have to forcibly remind myself.

A quote floats over. 'It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen...' If only I could pen something that profound, I think wistfully, after staring at a blank screen long enough to conjure dark dots.

Outside the big windows the sun beckons and I can see nature in all its splendour, obnoxiously more beautiful because I can't enjoy it. Forbidden fruit glistening; emerald grass winking. Aches and sharp pains from years of shoddy posture beckon me back. My neck didn't click this badly yesterday.

Am I damaged now? Is this me?

Perhaps I should wait until the sand lies still, until I've been told to regurgitate information not yet gorged on, before deciding if I'm fully done for. I could even try swallowing some of their bullshit in the meantime. It was worth a cursory thought, but nah, I'm already done for. My sixth sense is tingling: I've been watching myself all semester, failing to study day after day, and I can feel my comeuppance calling.

They were right. Time's a process and tomorrow reflects on the actions of yesterday. It's too late.

On the other hand, fuck it. Time is nothing and I'm too spaced out to care.