Fight or flight

Fight or flight response they call it, that adrenalin fuelled moment of survival.

I have always felt that these moments betray our true selves, revealing cowardice or courage depending on the situation in question.  I'm not so sure now.

I ponder this as I crouch shakily against the cold tiles of the public toilet wall, heart pounding as if determined to be heard above the desperate ragged breaths that rip through me continually.

As my breathing finally slows to a manageable speed I uncurl myself so that I am sat on the dubious floor. I am suddenly aware that a toilet must be leaking, a rivulet of water runs under a cubicle door toward my stockinged feet. I realised then I was without shoes or bag, I must have left them behind.  The words "blind panic" rush into my mind.

A violent burst of nausea takes me, and I begin to crawl towards the cubicle, my legs unwillingness to stand unhelped by the increasingly wet floor. As I retch I close my eyes and imagine that every heave will somehow undo what has happened, erase it and leave me cleansed.

 Instead I vomit a small amount of bile and dry heave for what seems like an eternity, feeling more wretched with each painful undulation.

A car door slammed somewhere in the near distance startling me and momentarily halting the sickness.

Standing up on deerish legs I made my way out of the cubicle and over to the door.

A quick glimpse at myself in the tarnished mirror as I passed confirmed that I was indeed a mess, a scramble of auburn hair framed a thin, pale face. The eyes of a mad woman stared back at me for the briefest moment, long enough to note a steadily purpling bruise under one eye.

I worked hard to slow my breathing, as it once again threatened to spout from me in harsh bursts, and peered slightly around the door. The empty park outside was opaque in the dusky halflight, altered by shapes and shadows. No people in sight, time to go.

I thought of the safety of home, and feeling marginally calmer began to walk awkwardly in my stocking clad feet through the park.  Hoping my belongings were still where I abandoned them I turned one corner then another, spotting them immediately on the grass. My shoes lay side by side, the heels as sharp as a guilty pang. My bag was unopened and ringing, my phone.

As I reached for the bag the ringing stopped abruptedly. I hoisted the brown leather over my shoulder and slipped my feet into the shoes, wincing as my toes pinched slightly.

I left the park and walked a few streets until I found a taxi rank.

As I entered the small cab office I was struck by the smell of coffee, cigarettes and grease, and my stomach rolled heartily again.

I spoke tentatively to the large jowly faced man behind the desk (if a chipped and scarred kitchen table with a dog eared telephone directory and an ancient phone can be classed as a desk).

“I need to go to Weston Road please” 

The man gave me a cursory glance and a hint of a smirk  then yawned, walrus-like.  Relief flooded me as I realised he wasn’t the least bit interested in the poor state of my appearance. 

“Five minutes, wait over there if you like” He motioned with to some chairs along the wall, they had, like the desk and the man seen much better days. I should have felt right at home given my circumstances, but I chose to wait outside. An uncomfortable five minutes waiting with Mr Walrus was not what I needed.

Out on the street I waited no more than two minutes before a silver mondeo arrived, emblazoned with the words  “Crawford's  private hire”.  I climbed into the back hoping the driver would be up for a silent journey.  He was, and I sat quietly watching the ever darkening streets roll past the grimy window.

My brain felt torpid and incapable, my limbs ached for a warm bath and the promise of bed. As we pulled into my street I began to rearrange my mussed hair, earning myself a confused glance from the driver in the mirror. He took my money quickly and seemed about to say something, but gave a tight smile instead and drove off swiftly as soon as I slammed the door.

My house was cold, I had been out all afternoon and November had got in. I fired up the boiler and sat down with my phone, wondering who had rung me earlier. My phone, unbiased in its honesty told me it was Miri.

Of course, I should have met with her today to discuss my ‘progress’. She would be frustrated by my no show, not the first time I have flaked on my therapist. I was of course in the process of convincing myself that I no longer had use for Miri and her not so charming insights, but then today happened and now I do not know anything.

I ran a bath and lay in it until the hot water supply was no more, then dragged myself to bed.

I slept immediately.

I was woken by a loud thumping, it slammed unapologetically into my dream state leaving me foggy and disorientated.  The front door.

 I left my bed and pulled on jeans and a navy sweater, all the time dreading the nature of this rude awakening.

As I yanked the door open I was met with the sight of Miri, stood stolidly on my doorstep, an icy smile doing nothing to soften her sharp whippet like features.
 Odd but typical that she would come to my home I thought, before running several excuses for yesterday through my sleep fuddled mind.

Nothing sounded plausible. My therapist was as shrewd as a spinster and as indefatigable as a child, lies would crumble under her scrutiny.

“I had a bad day yesterday Miri...I didn’t get back until late and…” I began, but she held up a hand and I stopped.

“I did call, but I presumed you had other more pressing engagements than your mental health”

I moved into the lounge and she followed, but did not sit as I did. Instead she stood watching me intently as I prepared myself to explain.

“I saw her”

There, it was out.

Miri sucked a thin disapproving breath inwards, her slender  frame tautened visibly and she clicked her tongue.

I continued, shaking slightly.

“It was accidental Miri, it’s so hard and it hurts so much, you don’t...”

“What? Understand? I’m trained to understand dear, and we have talked about this numerous times. It affects your progress, after all you have been through how can you not see that for yourself? It is over, and you should at least begin to come to terms with it!"

She paced the room shaking her head, causing her peppery grey curls to move in an uncharacteristically girlish fashion.

“I know that now…I  regret it. They threatened to call the police..”  The words tumbled out, falling into the air in a shameful flood.

I hung my head as a memory flashed through me of a derisive sneer, magnified in my minds eye.

“I see.” Miri clipped at me, slicing the atmosphere. “Is this something you are likely to try again? After all first it’s vigilantesque visits to her home, then stalking in the park. Perhaps you would like to go to prison, given your irresponsible and frankly outlandish behaviour. Put some ice on that eye.”

 She added this almost as an afterthought, but I sensed her concern beneath the frosty beratement.

I was defeated by it all. “Have you just come to scold me? Or did you actually need something?”

She frowned suddenly, unused to me being sharp in return.

“I merely came to see if you were alright, and of course to hear why I didn’t see you yesterday. Now that I know I shall leave you to it, to whatever it is that you do when you aren’t engaged in a direct flouting of a restraining order.”

Another barb, leading me to question for the hundredth time why I endured this ‘therapy’. I knew why however, I was tired of people hmming and aahing in the right places. I needed honesty, and like it or not that’s what I got with Miri. It was fair to say I hadn't dealt with the break up reasonably.

The restraining order. Those words that prevented me fixing everything that was wrong. Stopped me gaining back what I have lost.

I let my thoughts drift back again, and was only faintly aware of Miri leaving and shutting the front door behind her. I allowed myself to remember, and felt the humiliation wash over me once more.

I had ventured out yesterday afternoon, and spent some time in the local library until I realised my 5pm appointment with Miri was getting close.

I was pushed for  time, I remember tutting as I hurried out of the building. Kings park lay over the road, an inviting short cut, the scenic route only quicker.

It was mostly deserted given the time of day, and I wandered through enjoying the click of my heels on the winding path. Then I heard her. Ahead of me down a small fork in the path was a wooded area, and her voice seemed to drift upwards toward me.

No question of it being her, after years of loving that voice I knew I could not be mistaken. Nor could I help my feet as they moved ever closer to her, all the time telling myself to walk on, quickly before it’s too late.

I followed the turn of the path and there she was, sitting on the grass in spite of the chill, deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognise. New lover, or friend?  My heart jack-knifed in my chest.

The world shrank, became indeterminably small and I watched silently and still for a few moments before she looked up and saw me.

I stuttered a hello, or I think I did. She stared impassively for a second then a mask of fury overtook her delicate face.

“How did you know I was here?” she demanded, chin jutting out in beautiful anger.

“I didn’t, I heard you as I walked near and I wanted...” my words sounded foolish and childlike, my brain was a burning pile of everything that I could not say.

The gentleman next to her stood up, I took in his stocky appearance, the three day stubble and the sly acknowledgement of power in his flinty eyes.

“Wanted what?” he asked “To make a show of yourself?  She has a man now, best go home love” he sniggered wheezily.

 His tone was full of contempt, the emphasis on the word ‘man’ was a twisted spike.

“No, I just wish we could at least talk” I said, pointedly ignoring his jibe and looking at her.

“There is nothing to discuss, we split and you broke into my home to steal my clothes. Followed me to work and back for two weeks. Hence why in five seconds I will ring the police if you do not leave.” Her tone was flat now, with a grey finality to it that was new to my ears.

This was true, I had stolen things that I felt I needed, and followed her in the vain hope that she would reconsider.

I remained there, watching them both and wondering how it all got so hideous when I saw him move and advance upon me.  A thunderclap sensation across my face and I fell heavily onto the grass behind me, dropping my bag.

He grabbed my ankle and cruelly bent it, then removed my shoes with a sneer. He turned as if to give them to her, but she shook her head crossly, muttering "I don't want them". He tossed them next to me, where they lay as pathetically as I did.

I did not fight back, and the memory of that stings. She did not defend me, and the memory of that burns like it will never stop.

She looked at me and into me, before getting up and taking his arm.

“Goodbye Adam”

The name tore through me like a gale.  A weapon, a jibe, used to force up the memory of her walking into our room. Her clothes, my shame.

She could not, would not accept me.

 My head span, and finally a surge of adrenalin forced me up onto my feet.

Fight or flight they call it, he moved toward me once more and my body made its choice.