Text Me When You Get Home Safe

The path welcomed me with warm bright eyes, subtly cajoling me to follow its lengthy ways. 5 minutes. 300 seconds until the security of the twist and curl of the key unlatching the lock, to safe and soundly warmth, could foster itself once again.

The pitch-black sky extended from each roof to the next, sprawling to reach the far abyss that was the end of the street. The moon painted itself above me, giving light to my footsteps, and clearing my vision.

The overwhelming fear of silence brought to life. Just for a moment, life stopped inching forward at the speed of light, and quieted, amplifying the sound of insecurities and thoughts. The back of my neck lifting, to glimpse at the lanky, towering trees, while the feeling of faintness and formidability gathered, joining together to create a strong, powerful headache.

The trees twist and curl as the sound of my footsteps reverberate down the vacant side street. The brisk air suffocates my thoughts and swirls around my feet, coaxing me to follow down this path into the darkness. The clicking of the heals of my shoe thumper along the gravel lining of the road, croaking and projecting their minor insults and fears with each step. A bristle in pines behind me bundles me up and traps me. Frozen in time. Motionless. My throat filled with fear, coated in the words they repeat and migrate into my mind: 'Don't walk alone'. All I wanted to do was scream, but choking isolation captured me and wrapped me up in a bundle of goosebumps.

Red scars cemented themselves in the folds of my palm, weaving and dodging between the racing grooves and purple veins, which made their mark from the opening of my wrist to the tips of my fingers. Metal getting caught by the webbing of my knuckles, moving to its unspoken and familiar place in between my middle and ring, quickly and efficiently settling into place once again. My thumb unconsciously moving to evaluate its undefined strength, stretching over each dent and grove of my nickel-brass key. My curled fingers pinched the row of calluses resigned in tip of my palm, locked into place by the warmth and security of my thumb. Fist clenching, grasping for any existing protection.

A gentle murmur fills any remaining space in my ears not occupied by hoarse shout of fabricated fears. The friction of tires builds, increasing to hit an immense volume, trapping me into its suspenseful uproar. Each strand of hair lifts and straightens, conquering the puzzle of goosebumps on my arms. The rev of the engine vanquishes the silence of the frigid whirl of air rebounding off each leaf of the trees. Moments passing. The presence of the motor failing to diminish into the distance. Instead, lingering. I peered to notice the drift of the hood of the car, steering in my direction. The steady pace of my feet clicking on the pathway perpetuates into a fast and swift speed-walk as I spot the shadow of a steel black ute over my shoulder.

The frost on the glass is slowly removed by the wiping down of the window guides. The side window of the ute continues to stretch down, revealing a wide grin from the driver. I felt his eyes. I felt his longing stare evaluate my every worth. The glare flexed, following any movement from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. His unwanted gaze manifested itself in further self-doubt. Questioning his very right to have this grand of an impact, but that thought cocooned itself as quickly as a butterfly does when the last huff of summer hits Brisbane. Insecurity flooded and rushed into the depths of my mind, much like the way in which an overarching wave crashes forcefully into a sand bank. Self-loathing every dip and curl in my body, asking myself what I did to deserve his brawl.

An object for them to hoot and hallow their opinions, insults, and admiration at. Flattered. A crushing expectation to be content and gracious at one's appreciation of my existence. Instead, insecurity gathers and meets, colliding with an unconscious guilt, as it whimpers as loud and as fast as the projection of my heartbeat. Familiarity coninscides once again but is overwhelmed by self-doubt concaving in every depth of my body.

My arms stretched to the very corner of my tote bag, reaching for the comfort of my mobile, to resign itself the base of my hand. The fluorescent ambiance of the screen rebounded off the lengths of the trees, and the swarming windows of the motors speeding by. The simple, yet reassuring, message glared up at me, with immerse eyes of hope, reading:

'Text me when you get home safe.'