Philophobia

1

                     Something awful was awoken in me that day that I haven't been able to escape. There's a burning in my gut, as if it's fighting to escape me. I gasp for air, scratching, punching, kicking, searching for something solid as I plummet.

I can't breathe.

I kick harder.

I CAN'T BREATHE.

I gasp, a burning sensation forms in my chest as the oxygen hits my lungs. I open my eyes, ready for whatever was in front of me.

Crosses hang on the wall closest to me, and on the bedside table lie a bible open on Psalm 91. Scattered, unopened letters sit atop a hutch top desk. In the shelves of that desk were books with red, leather covers all marked with a black roman numerals.

I was in my bedroom.

My heavy breathing slows. I sigh deep, and my hands grab my face to bring me back into this reality. I bring my knees up to my chest.

The same dream, or more-so feelings, reoccur nightly. My father, the towns priest, used to bless my room every so often to no avail. Though, the door to my room had to be closed while he blessed it.

I slump back down onto my pillow, cold sweat lingering still. The canopy's black sheer fabric hangs down to the floor, tied off at the end of the bed. My arms lie above my head as I look at the gold stars on my ceiling.

I painted this room with my mother when I was 7, shortly before she passed. I still remember her wavy blonde hair, tickling my nose when she would carry me. Her freckled face with smeared blue paint and gold leaf dust falling on her as she painted. My father pleaded me to cover it after it happened, but I refused. He doesn't come into my room anymore. All remnants of her once living in this church were removed by him, not being able to handle the grief.

In attempts to recover I map out the day ahead of me. It wasn't Sunday, so no service. I glance at my handmade calendar.

November 5 - Tuesday

Tuesday was one of the days of the week I was free to do what I wanted, without the interruption of helping my father, or fulfilling requests from patrons of the church. I sit up, feeling slightly better, and decide to take a stroll in town to ease my mind a bit more. I stretch and make my way out of bed, walking over to my wardrobe. Except for special occasions, I wear brown and whites, so not to draw attention to myself. I, myself, was quite dull, with red-ish brown hair and green eyes. I was thin, but with all of the work I did for the church, I wasn't weak. I'm slightly less pale than my father but not as tan as my mother, and with her freckles. Just simple, which is why I was happy with my appearance.

I dress myself in a white undershirt and a brown vest. Darker colored trousers, and black boots. I begin to leave my small room upstairs to the churches chapel. My father's office was to the far left of the altar, where he spent most of his time. This time his door was open, and as he heard my footsteps he beckoned me over. I walk over slowly, not sure what to expect from him today. Ever since my mother, his mood shifted day to day. I tap at the doorframe.

"Enter."

I open the door and slowly make my way to his desk. "Yes?"

Without looking at me, he says in a monotone voice, "Today, on your stroll you will hear talk of the Winter Solstice Banquet. We were politely invited by His Highness as honorable guests. I expect you to come as well."

"Yes, Father." I look at the floor, not sure of what to say. I didn't much care for any large gatherings, especially those of royal regard. I continue, asking the question, "Why have they invited us?"