quiet is violent

-- 1

---1

The short sharp stabbing pain of my fingernails into my clammy hands is almost numbed by their violent shaking.  I try my hardest to control them, as I glimpsed a horrified glance from wrinkled eyes, behind a newspaper. I glance around the small room to see if anyone else is terrified of my slouched shape in the corner. A little girl points at me, and I hear whispers.

 I stare at the murky coffee stained carpet that looks older than the man across from me. It is worn and tattered and is desperately pleading to be vacuumed, ancient crumbs, dirt and dust infecting its fraying hair. I kick at it a little bit with my shaky legs, a volcano of dust erupts. My chest tightens as the people around me shit in their seats. I feel as if I don’t belong. They make me feel that way; it is almost uncomfortable as the chair I am sitting on.  I take a deep breath, reminding myself, my thoughts trail as the toxic smell of anti-bacterial disinfectant burns my throat. I choke and try to hold back a cough, as the ancient eyes appear above the newspaper. I turn towards the wall, eyes itching and watering, as I splutter out a cough.

I haven’t been here this early before, the few people cramped into this tiny space is intimidating, as they see your every movement, action , breath and blink. I really want to leave, but I have to stay. I turn to look out the window, realising there is none there. I try to imagine the view but taped to the space is a Suicide Hotline Poster, I try to ignore the nagging feeling at the back of my brain and turn back around feeling empty.

The tap tapping of the receptionist’s keyboard echoes in my ears, bouncing in the empty space. Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap. I jump. Startled out of my thoughts, I am suddenly aware of the heaviness of my breathing as though time itself was slowly sucking the breath from my lungs. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I gasp and shake.

I can feel the eyes of people watching, staring, surveying, and judging.

My legs start to bounce; the swishing of nylon creates asymphony with the tap taping of the key board and the pounding of my heart. I look around for a clock, there isn’t one? Why isn’t there a clock? Why wouldn’t they have a clock? Why? Have I been waiting for an hour? Two? What is the time? Why would they not allow me to know the time? I anxiously sweep the tiny cramped cupboard space of a room that we are all cramped into again, but still no clock. I clutch my hands again; the sharp pain makes my eyes snap open again, blinking back tears. The little girl tugs on her mother’s sleeve; the lady looks up as I look away. I can hear them discussing me in hushed tonnes, used only at funerals. I can barely hear them over the beating of my heart. I wonder if they can hear it too, it sounds louder than a bass drum at a concert.

I look down at the battered chair and attempt to trace the pattern on the uncomfortable, ancient vinyl chair trying to portray some sense of calmness, but my hands show how I really feel.  My sweaty palms stick to it as I try to steady myself. Stop shaking I tell myself, but that just makes it worse. I try again to steady my hands on my still trembling legs. Breathe, Breathe. Sickly bile fills my throat, as the nauseating feeling spreads throughout my stomach, I clutch at it trying to conceal its noises.

My eyes fleetingly look for a distraction and I stare at the off white colour peeling from the walls surrounding me. Surrounding me. Closing in on me. Almost crushing me.  I close my eyes and try to swallow, but my throat is drier than the desert, it burns and the nauseating feeling returns. I have to stay, I say to myself as I clasp the moulded armrests. Not daring to see the horrified faces around me. I squeeze my eyes tighter. Even though my eyes are shut I can see the whiteness of my knuckles, the blood has rushed from my face.

I can’t breathe.

I realise that I have been holding my breath as I gasp for air. The cool air caresses and soothes my lungs, I breathe in deeply, feeling a hot flush creep across my checks as though someone has painted it on as they walked past.

 Shaking, still shaking. The tap taping stops and the receptionist looks over, everything is silent, and all eyes are on me. All. Eyes.  Are.  On.  Me.  I have to get out of here. Move I say to my legs. Get up!

“Run.” I scream.