I stared at the foam covered Michelin man I was to tackle. Focus. My instructor, Sensei Jo, told me to Hold…visualize before you move. I stared at the bored eyes and ready hands of the practice student. He was an attacker. I breathed in. He wasn’t any attacker. It was Him. My hair prickled like a wild dog. He was going to hurt me. I saw the dim street on the way to my apartment, the smell of sickly sweat and his baggy clothes. A scream exploded from my chest. Two instructors had to tear me off of his neck.

I could have thumped him on the back of the head. Today, of all days, Alex was going into Monster Mode. I forced a smile and made a comment to the effect of He's never like this, he's just SO excited about meeting you ladies! The women smiled understandingly, and the Betty White facsimile started reminiscing about her granddaught--when a terrible screech pierced the air. If those old broads weren't deaf before, they sure were now. He disappeared under the table, to steal shoes. I don’t know how I was going to trick anyone into thinking Alex was normal.

I remember being a child and asking my mum what day it was. Every day. I knew, of course, but she would lie so I could correct her. “Mum, what daaay is it?” I asked coolly. “Why, I believe its Tuesday, Toby.” I would break out into hysterical giggles, “No, no! It’s THURSDAY.” That seemed like just yesterday, as I held her wrinkled hand now. “Toby,” she asked, her voice frail and faint. “What day is it?” She had asked me twice. I couldn’t bear it. “It’s Friday, mum.” She paused a moment, and spoke, “Toby, dear, what day is it?”

She had a way of walking in the office, like a ship coming into a harbor. You’d crane your neck out of whatever cubicle, cabin or cage you were in, just to see the event of her walking away. The gentle sashay of hips that promised so much, but never fulfilled. She had click click clicked her heels down the halls for almost a year, but it never lost its luster. Each step was like the first, and oh, how’d you wish those satin clicks would stop outside your door. Instead, they traced an audible map to the powder room.

Full short here:
http://wattsthemighty.tumblr.com/post/11942498125/the-quiet-desperation
 

Shiiiick. Shiiiick. The match would scratch, and a bloom would grow in the dark. By second nature he cupped it with his hands, staring through the iron gate. What was her problem? She acted like she liked him, and now she wouldn't talk to him. He let the match fall to the ground. He lit another one. The voice of a security guard barked back to the glow. "Hey! What are you doing?" The guard was portly and mustached, a watch dog type. The flame burned out and he disappeared into the dark. Didn't matter. He'd burn it down tomorrow.

My junior year I was a secretary at this PR firm. The only qualification I met was that I could answer a phone, and even that was a miracle. Calls were dropped, lost, sent to outer space. It was painful work, and frankly I don't know how anyone does it without blowing their brains out. The lone solace was the window. On the 43rd floor you have a brilliant view of the factories on the horizon. In a trance, I would stare into wafting smoke like a hypnotist’s watch. I will be a bird. When I wake, I will fly.

..1...2…3...

I cupped the mug in my hands and watched the surface move--slow and steady--almost imperceptibly. It had a remarkable stirring stillness, like a hurricane brewing. I could tell today would be a big one; I had just misjudged its magnitude. If I had known then that in the next four hours, I would have a profanity laced breakdown in the board room, weep in front of our CEO and race straight to the airport to take the first plane I could find—one to Alaska, of all places—I think I would have had another cup of coffee.

The diner was empty at this hour, except a woman who I’m sure was a prostitute—fried red hair crimped and tumbling over a face caked with makeup—and a few older guys, who had no business being awake at this hour unless it was to visit the former. I sat at the bar and waited for someone to appear from the back. I had frequented enough dive bars and bus stops to feel at ease here, but the pangs of hunger from two days straight on the road had made me edgy. Well, that and possibility of the police.

What the hell is that? I backed up to the mirror, contorting my spine and twisting my shoulders. I craned my head as far as it would go to see what it looked like—that hard, cold bump I felt on my back. At first I didn’t see anything, just the unassuming freckles and blemishes. But then I caught a glimpse of it. It was just below my skin; raised, with sharp lines and a triangle shape. And it was glowing. I panicked and scratched with my nails, tearing away flesh. It was rooted, deep. I clawed. 

It glowed brighter.

I stared at her from across the room and could feel my blood boiling. My skin must looked scorched and burnt, the flame within me was so wild. She looked up at me without shock--but--couldn't she see I was on fire? "You okay?" she asked, finally noticing my intense gaze. I wanted to kill her. "Yeah." I muttered. "You don't look okay," she laughed lightly, coming towards me and wrapping her arms around me. I couldn't take her cold touch. The flames broke out of my body, it engulfed us both, as I wrapped my hands around her neck.

I let out a yawn and twisted the buttons on my pajama top. I was slouched so deep into the cushions, I must have looked like an awkward human-couch. “Don’t look!” she yelled from the kitchen. “What? Look?” I yelled back, closing my eyes. “Haa-Ha, butt-head!” My sister had no sense of humor. “Okay. Open,” she said, pressing something into my hands. It was a Kodak of us, from when our parents were alive. The paper was warped; it must have been one of the few things rescued from Katrina’s wake. I had forgotten what they looked like. “Merry Christmas.”