Lucya | a cure for me
These people, who do not forget their way home.
The rope at my hip still draws tight. The flower shop is only a few more steps ahead. Do you smell the lilies?
The sunlight must have warmed the eastern wall already. There are people on this street, feet rushing past me. Yet here I am, pressed against this wall. Pale yellow paint crumbles underneath my hands, leaving behind the stench of mould and a familiar dampness on my fingertips. Unpleasant. Compared to the gaping street to my left, however, this wall is comforting.
Steady now. The corner should appear at any moment. That sharp turn when this bright and solid facade suddenly tapers into a ridge. Ten steps. I pull my shawl tighter, that worked cloth and the acrid smell of soap draws tighter. Shuffling along. Slower now. Slower now. Nine. Even then, as the brightness of crumbling wallpaper fills one corner of my vision, my other side is painfully exposed. There is nothing solid outside of this wall. Eight. A gust of wind blows past. I huddle closer to my anchor, chest pressed against the patchy surface of brick and plaster. Like a prisoner lined for execution, desperately twisting about for a more comfortable position, only to die.
Seven steps now. And my hands begin to shake. And I taste that gall which rises from the base of my throat. I must look so pathetic. Because I do not know how long I have taken. Six. Because there are now whispers all around me. Pedestrians. Ladies and gentlemen, who can walk out from the shadow of these walls. Workers and students who populate the open boulevard. Five. These people, who do not forget their way home.
Four. Do you remember the way home? My heart drops. I feel the rope at my hip. Fingers clutching at the knots. Everything held fast. I close my eyes . The flower-shop is just around this corner. Lucya, You’ve made so much distance.
Three. I couldn’t help the sudden tightness that constricted my chest. The wall is still here. The air grows sharper. I shudder. I must be entering the shade. Two more steps. In. Out. Focus on the lilies, Lucya. Do you smell the lilies? One more step. Just one more step now.
agoraphobia(n.) | agorá + phóbos | a fear of open spaces
