Singed Synapses and Deranged Dendrites

Ambushed (#ambush)

I'm not a paranoid person, but I know they are out to get me. Waiting for me somewhere, waiting in ambush, perhaps concealed, perhaps in plain sight. I lock my doors at night and peek out of the curtains at the empty streets. The wind picks up and an empty plastic bag scuttles by in the dim lamp light. Then it is quiet and eerie and calm. For the moment I am safe here alone in my home by myself, but I know they are out there plotting, plotting against me.

Today is another day, another day to be imagining all of the ways they are going to try to get me. I shower and shave, dress for work in the dark. I prepare toast with my tea, eyeballing the slightly stale bread closely under the bare bulb in the kitchen. Perhaps they poisoned the bread overnight. I smell it and I consider tossing it in the bin and set it back on the plate untouched. 

I pour the hot water over my tea and pull the milk out of the fridge. Again I consider. Is it the toast or the milk that could do me in? Which is more likely? My stomach rumbles. I decide I will stop at the store for new milk and bread after work. I throw out my breakfast and drink my tea black. Then, reluctantly, I set out into the world. 

They could be waiting at any corner, attack me inside or outside a shop, on a bus or onboard the train. My head spins with the dangers that could lurk anywhere. I stop at a bakery–one I trust– though in truth I trust no one. I pick up a scone, a blueberry one. I have to eat at some point. It is delicious and warm and gives me hope. Even if they come for me I'll survive. I've fought them off before. I reach the office no worse for the wear. 

My job is a boring one, pushing papers all day, but it pays the bills. But don't let the mundane nature of the beige cubicles lined in neat rows under sterile fluorescent lighting fool you. I'm no safer here than anywhere. The enemy has no qualms about recruiting my co-workers. Perhaps today they have enlisted Mrs. Jones sitting demurely at her workstation in her mauve-colored polyester pantsuit surrounded by pictures of her five cats. Mrs. Jones hands me an expense report to process. I thank her and eye her suspiciously. Is her face more puffy and ruddy than usual? Is she shaking just a bit? 

I finish work, exhausted. Stepping out onto the street it begins to rain and I can't see myself making it all the way home on foot, so reluctantly I get on the bus. Despite being rush hour, it thankfully isn't crowded and I take a seat. I relax for a moment, let my guard down.

And that's when they get me. 

A young boy steps on board with his mother. He is laughing happily and so small I can see only the red helium balloon he grasps in one small hand and the top of his blonde curls as he walks up the aisle. He passes me and I'm smiling now at the pure joy this small being embodies. I see in the hand not holding the balloon a large flat round lolli in a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors. What a wonderful day he his having, compared to my own drenched in fear and worry.

He turns to look at me as he passes and time seems to slow. I see the broad grin cross his face contort bizzarely, his laugh become low and hollow. My eye fixates on a large drop of snot running from his left nostril down his chubby little cheek. 

And then he sneezes. All over me.