Fury

1

                                      .
                                      .
                                      .

What am I doing here?

Deep in the corners of my heart, I know the answer, I know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slid down my throat onto my bones the moment I got that text.

A text I should have ignored, deleted, and then blocked.

A text I shouldn’t have looked at, shouldn’t have given enough weight to interfere with my decision-making process.

But I did!

And that’s why I’m here

And now, I’ve been put in a position of no return.

And I’m not sure I can push this lapse of judgment into the possibility of no choice

In fact, I do.

I just wasn’t good with options, didn’t appreciate them, didn’t care for them, would rather not make one.

The text is an obligation or, more accurately, a piece of relevant information.

It wasn’t a choice, and it certainly wasn’t a situation I could escape.

The reason I’m here is largely due to my sense of responsibility that I’ve been carrying around like excess baggage since I started learning what life is all about.

I’m in what looks like an indoctrination center, other students standing on either side of me in parallel lines wearing white rabbit masks covering their features.

We’re facing a huge three-story mansion with old-looking stone walls and an old tower on the far right.

The longer I stay still, the faster my breathing becomes.

My inhalations and exhalations flow in a rapid, broken rhythm  , forming condensation on the plastic and forcing me to gasp for air.

Tick tick tick tick.....

The sound is low, but it hits my mind like a fatal accident. My mouth starts to fill with saliva, and I swallow it, forcing my stomach to settle.

Tick tick tick tick.....

I raise my hand about to pull my mask off, at times wishing I could just smash it against the nearest wall and watch it all spill out and shatter all at once and be done with.

Tick tick tick
My fingers curl in the air, but I lower my hand and force it to stay by my side.

It’s okay, I can do this.

Breathe.

You’re in control.

My soothing words of affirmation crack and splinter as the scene around me comes back into focus.

No matter how hard I try to delude myself, the truth is that I’m in the last place I should be
And I’m not someone who defies fate or goes places I’m not supposed to go, in my twenty-five years of life I’ve always been the type to follow the rules, I’ve never deviated from what’s expected of me and I’m slipping into the idea of ​​being different.

In any sense of the word…

For any reason.
And yet, here I am at the Pagan Palace because I received a text message

I made the conscious decision not to ignore it, I made the decision to attend the initiation of the most famous club on Brighton Island, a secluded place near the southwest coast of the United Kingdom