Quietude
Work, chores, exercise, sleep, then work again — all week, like clockwork, she lost herself in her to-do lists. Her weekends were also meticulously planned; she always had something to do. Her friends often wondered where she got the energy to do it all, an assertion she always brushed off with a casual you-know-I-like-to-keep-busy while deep inside, every strand in her heart crossed itself, hoping they would take the lie at face value. They usually did.
The few who tried to break through the barrier left with bloodied hands and barely a scratch on her walls. She was perversely proud of how strong she was. She was never going to let anyone in…again.
Then, came the global disaster feared by Cassandraic scientists, and the subsequent lockdown. Her company asked her to work from home, something she happily complied with — she could get so much more done, now that she did not have to make the trip to work. A few days in, a co-worker tested positive and her whole department was asked to self-quarantine. Her composure staggered, but her to-do list kept her moving, focused.
The weekend arrived. Her earlier plans had all been cancelled, so she decided to binge-watch some shows. Lounging in her most comfortable tee, she tried to lose herself in the minutiae of someone else’s imagined life. A man snickered on the screen, that sinister half-smile and unshaven jaw prompted a jolt of adrenaline. A strong odour of cedarwood assailed her nostrils. The rotten tang of congealed blood in her mouth made her retch. Her wrists sent twinges of pain while her lower stomach and pelvis throbbed.
She ran and hid in the bathroom. Sitting in the bath, trembling, she tried to physically shield her eyes from the snapshots her memory threw at her. Nothing worked. She ran back to the living room and switched off the TV. She methodically closed all the windows.
Returning to her bedroom, she switched on her ocean sounds playlist and huddled under the bed. The sounds slowly seeped into her heart, stroking it to calmness.
She crawled out and sat kneeling on the floor. It had been years since she had had an attack like this one. She could not go back to that time ever again. The terror, the sleepless nights — these were things her then young body could have handled; but the medication was far worse. It made her feel nothing…flat…one-dimensional…non-existent. Never again would she relegate herself to zombie status.
She shook her head vigorously. She’d beaten this once, she could again. She just needed to keep herself occupied. It had to be the TV, but something lighter this time. She found the animation channel, a large bag of chips and proceeded to swallow her pain. She went to bed, mildly high on carbs and saccharine-sweet cartoons.
The next morning, she woke up in a fog. Her traumatised brain refused to open for business as she shuffled into the kitchen. Following the commands of her instinct, she opted for tea instead of her usual coffee.
She took the tea over to the dining table and sat down. The sun, benevolently warm for once, seeped gold through the windows and caressed her skin. She basked as the warmth melted away the remnants of panic coating her heart.
She took a sip of the tea. Matching warmth sent a cascade of goose pimples racing over her limbs. A lethargy weighed her limbs gently, like a childhood quilt.
The sun grew stronger; its rays moved from her hands to her face to the top of her head. It was getting uncomfortably warm as she sat there, soaking it all in, her brain silent.
As the sun finally bid farewell to her seat, she got up. Her brain was still. She felt…nothing…no anger, no angst, no itching desire to do something…and no pain, no fear…not even of the bubble breaking and the world rushing back in.
It was the start.
© Indira Reddy 2020
