Introduction
I wrote this at work. Again, it’s messy, but it’s from the heart. I don’t feel like this often anymore, but… it doesn’t completely go away. This was for the Alpine Fellowship Prize, with the theme ‘fear’.
Story
In the harsh light of the bathroom mirror, I find that I cannot look away from the person who looks back at me. Without meaning to I lean closer, drawn in like a magnet, until they disappear behind a staining of fog, my own warm breath trying to hide them from me. Something about them repulses me, I want to scream, I don’t want to see them again, but no matter where I go they follow. Even when I do not look they haunt my memory: the large pores, the hair where it shouldn’t be, the flaky skin under the brows, the too small eyes, the double chin that’s beginning to creep in, the stained clothes that don’t hide the ill-fitting bra, the belt that’s beginning to break. I frown, they frown. I purse my lips, they purse theirs. Their skin begins to redden as I pick at it with my nails, trying to make it better. Their lips become more chapped as I lick them. A knock on the door. Shit. It’s been 10 minutes, that’s at least 5 minutes too long. What will they assume I was doing? I prepare a lie: I’m on my period, I needed to sort myself out. Another minute, footsteps, and they’ve gone into another stall. I make my exit, fleeing the scene of the crime, opening the door so little I may as well have walked through it, a ghost. I’m not in a rush. Head tilted upwards, posture straight, long strides across the office to my desk. Nobody is looking at me. It’s fine. Nobody counts down the minutes, tracking my time. Only me. I’ve made it, and now my hand is on the back of my chair. As I pull it out, holding my breath—I’ve nearly gotten away with it—the chair catches on my colleague’s handbag. I look up; she hasn’t yet noticed. I can’t breathe. Another light tug and it’s fine. The faint smell of sweat makes me keep my arms pinned to my sides. My wrists sit awkwardly as I type in my password: I was gone too long, it logged me out. They must’ve noticed, I think. I’m sat here, staring at my screen, smelling of sweat, my skin’s an angry mess. They must sense my panicked eyes, my quiet breaths, the tense posture of someone who has something to hide. My mouth stays closed—I recently had lunch—but I bet they can smell it from here. The silence is heavy, so heavy, what if they were talking before I came back out here? What if they were talking about me? Typing soon fills it. Another team’s laughter wafts over, taunting me. Should we be laughing, too? After all the effort I put in, has my inner turmoil leaked out of me, sticking itself to them, weighing them down? My nails find their way to my skin. It soothes me, scraping at it, smoothing it down, albeit temporarily. Opposite, a colleague looks up at me. I still, a small creature in the gaze of a predator, hoping to blend into the background. Normal people don’t pick at their skin like this, do they? She asks me something simple. My answer is clumsy: I answer correctly, but take too long getting there. It’s met with a quick nod, the head then bowing to continue work. She could smell my breath, couldn’t she? I contemplate the most discreet way to breathe into my palm, why didn’t I check this earlier? Should I ask for gum? I go back to the bathroom.
It’s 6 O’clock. Four of us are gone. Two remain. A good number. I can leave now without being the first—how little work does she have, she has nobody to rush back to—but also I’m not the last—how much work does she have, they’ll ask, more than anyone else? I can’t pack my bag quickly enough. Someone moves in my peripheral vision, and I know who sits there. Chatty, bubbly, and if caught in the lift with them I’ll be forced to divulge how my day was, reducing it down to ‘good’ (a lie). My laptop fights with me, not wanting to go into the right pocket. It wins. I check my water bottle three times before I’m convinced it’s closed tightly enough. Words start to tumble out of me, goodbye, have a nice weekend, oh that’s nice, yeah I’m meeting friends… somewhere. Another lie. No, not a lie. A performance. Everyone does it, don’t they? Nobody can possibly be themselves all the time, out here in the wilderness, predators lurking on every corner, waiting to pick you apart. Halfway out of the building and I notice, I forgot my laptop charger. It’s fine. I don’t need it. If my colleague asks me about it I’ll feign ignorance, I didn’t notice at all. I’d rather they think I was stupid. The performance is not over. The streets of the city are overflowing. I dance through it, side stepping people and giving them as wide a berth I can before I’m on the road. One foot in front of the other, pointing forwards, heel-toe, heel-toe. Or should it be ball-heel-toe? I stumble and then hasten my pace. On the train I manage to get a seat. At every stop I glance up at the open doors, scan the newcomers for anyone who may need my seat more than I, before I give up and stand anyway. Is it always this hot? I should take off my coat. I go to do so, but my elbow is too close to another’s face, so I reach for my book. The smell of paper takes me away for a second, only a second, as I lift it up to my face. Do I look pretentious? I move it away. A young man takes my seat, his foot nudging mine as he spreads his legs. His gaze traces the title of my book, and then my face. Do I look like a poser? I lift my book up once more, blocking him from view. Off the train, on the other side, I dance once more. This is a faster, more dangerous tango, with bikes and bells that come up from behind. Pain shoots up my neck as I strain my neck around for the fourth time. The door’s in sight. Nearly there. One glance. The neighbours aren’t here. My keys are in my hand, they’re in the door, and I’m in the house. The curtain is closed. I let out a low sigh, like I’m relieved. But the truth is she’s followed me home. She looks at me through the mirror in the hall, the light framing her face in a different array of shadows, a different colour, that almost hides what’s wrong. But I know better. Close enough to the glass it all comes to the light, for anyone to see. She’s away from other judging eyes, but she isn’t away from mine.