Choking On Mice

It was there in a vague and foggy way when she woke up in the morning, and it followed her to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen where she brewed coffee and boiled her egg. It was stronger when she was in the car, driving, especially when someone was tailgating, and when she glanced in her rearview every few seconds or so, to keep an eye on the vehicle behind her, and how close it was, how impossibly close. And at the red light, waiting for the green, she felt it pounding through her in that infinite minute while the traffic whizzed past her on South Street. Here she had to make a left turn with no arrow to assist her through the intersection as her engine knocked on the pull up the hill. Because she was afraid of hills too, afraid of rolling backwards as she released the clutch. She never, ever quite got the hang of driving a standard transmission. But this was her car, this old Subaru, and she was harnessed to it, like she was with this fear.

Her fear was her shadow, her companion. Her universal other spirit, weaving into her mind and body both consciously and through her dreams and nightmares. It had been with her for so long now, she could no longer imagine life without it. It was integrated into her personality. Touch her and she’d startle and tremble. People would remark that lately she seemed a bit “jumpy,” or “nervous.” Because, inside, she felt as though she carried a bomb that was on the verge of detonating. The fear was so intense, and it’s power so devastating if unleashed, she felt it was capable of annihilating her. That is what she believed. So of course, she was very cautious with the bomb. She carried herself gently, so as not to disturb it, or agitate it. She spoke softly, carefully, if at all, worried about waking the bomb, and never raised her voice, or cried. Most of all, she knew she’d never be able to afford a specialist to disarm the bomb. It was hers for keeps, as long as she was alive.

“The economy is going over the cliff,” the male voice announced on the radio. She didn’t catch his credentials; he was just another voice in the background of her day. She thought of lemmings, nothing more than little hamsters, leaping off the cliffs of Norway, into the sea, and swimming, swimming, swimming, until they were fatally exhausted, and drowned. No, they didn’t commit suicide. They were migrating. They had tried to make it and press on. But after that big leap, and all that cold water, how far could a lemming expect to go?