I'm nearly crushed by the mass of bodies that expand and contract with panicked breaths. The lazy, dusty swirls of air have been replaced by panting, electric fear that jolts though me like lightning.
I can't breathe. Someone behind me knocks my shoulder, pushing me forward into someone else. A woman steps on my shoe, screaming for her son. The wails of children fill the air like howling wolves, and I start to breathe faster, dragging my own pocket of air into my lungs like a drowning person.
Layla's grip is like steel on my arm, her pulse jumping through her fingertips like lightning. I hate her touch. It felt like a shackle in the crowded place. I feel an urge to shake my arms, to flee in terror, to stand my ground, but one thousand thoughts reel through me head, un-processable in their quantity.
Footsteps, the smell of pastries, the whirring of wings, the clicking of bird talons and beaks, the muttering of people, the shouting, the jolting of my limbs as I'm pushed along like debris in a river of people. Layla's concerned face, my loud, jagged breaths sawing in my ears, the smell of terror, the dampness of sweat on my arms, that doesn't belong to me, someone's deep voice yelling racist insults. I flinch at the words, jerking against the flow of people, yelping as something tugs at my hair. Someone drops shopping on my feet, and I trip up on a perfume bottle, feeling the unyielding glass slip into the crowd, making a horrible noise as it rolls. My ribs sting from something hitting them on a bin. I want to scream, but I can't catch my breath for long enough. The only thoughts in my mind are escape, escape, escape.
It's horrible, like nails on a chalkboard, or a rusty saw, or losing a tooth, or a mass of signals screaming up and down your spine, in your head, your ears, your skin, your nose, your eyes and your mouth, WRONGNESS! NO! WRONGNESS!
I want to be sick, but Layla is holding onto my arm, and the people are moving with us in a stampede, and the shopping bags are cutting into my arm, but then the noises are gone with a slamming of the door.
I still notice the overpowering smells of bleach and air fresheners, and soap. The blaring strip lights reflecting in glares on the mirrors, the way my foot caught on the floor, squeaking as I walked in, and how it caught my arm as it closed. The vinyl floor, white with specks of other bits in a pattern, oranges, browns and purples, rushing by under my feet.
I jerk my hand away, I want to run, I need to fight, I move my limbs uncertainly. I hear the sound of running water beyond the draining tanks of the toilets, and I flinch as the taste of salt enters the corner of my mouth. There are tears streaming down my red face.
"Hana." I focus as hard as I can. I storm over, recognizing a sink full of water. Layla ran it for me.
I suck in my juddering breaths, and plunge my face into it, my lungs calming almost immediately after the brief panic of having my mouth and nose fully submerged. I squint my eyes open against the cold water. There is no sound here, no sights, no smells, just the lapping of the waterline by the tops of my ears. Perfect calm. My diver's reflex.
I stay there until my breaths run out, and I pull my head out of the water. I flinch as my wet hair dripping cold water slaps my face. My eyelashes are full of water, dripping down my face. I notice Layla standing there, and I freeze.
My throat feels all lumpy, like tarmac down my throat, and I feel shivery and light headed. I don't want to be here, my face wet, turning red with shame, making it even more obvious I don't want to be standing here. Getting overwhelmed and needing someone to help me feels terrible, like I'm a burden, or a child throwing a tantrum, not able to take care of myself.
I hate the way people look at me, like I'm something to be fixed, or put in a hospital, or locked away from 'normal people' who aren't 'problems'. I hate it, the way whenever I bring up my Asperger's I'm looked at differently from a few seconds before, but I can't leave it unsaid in case something happens and it's worse than if I didn't tell them. Things like, 'oh, that explains why you are so smart' or 'you can't say that word' or 'you're not really autistic, or 'oh, are you good at maths', 'you must enjoy homework', 'what's 1578 multiplied by 2345'.
Yes, I'm smart. Yes, I'm autistic. I have Asperger's. Yes, I'm a human being, like you, capable of reacting to things you say to me, I can feel emotions, and I understand what you mean when you say things sarcastically, I don't mind the word Asperger's, despite it's origins. I'm not an emotionless genius. I don't like being defined by my autism, but I don't want to be called 'normal' like it's a good thing everyone should aspire to. Who I am is both separate and related to my Asperger's, I want you to like me the way I am, not because someone feels sorry for me, or because you need to 'fix' me.
And I feel ashamed that I was like that, that I lost control, that someone needed to pull me aside and help calm me down. I'm thankful, but I'm also mortified that Layla saw me overwhelmed, that she might think the same as the people I read about online. That she might be horrified, or feel like I need to be looked after. The Layla I care so much about seeing me as a burden or different.
But she just stands there, biting her lip wondering if she did something wrong, and I want to hide, or comfort her, but I don't for fear that she might flinch like I'm a beast on a rampage, or that she might speak to me like I'm a scared kitten during a storm, or she might leave me alone.
I avoid looking at her, as I feel her gaze burn into me like sun to a vampire. I want her to say something, anything, to break the stifling, drowning silence. I can't cry, I can't act like a child, my friendship is on the line, I can't do anything wrong.
She hasn't seen me overwhelmed since a year seven overnight trip, where I crawled under the bed, and hissed like a cat, from pure sensory overwhelm of being in a place like this. Maybe she thought it was a thing I grew out of, and this makes me burn with shame, and anger and regret that I wasn't able to push it down, or hold it back, even though I know that's impossible.
"Are you okay?" Layla asks. I know she's in that award stage of wondering if I'm okay, whether it's okay to ask, wondering if I might cry again, or if it's insensitive to ask a basic question you'd ask anyone else. But I feel relived, that she hasn't run away, that she hasn't tried to touch me, that she hasn't stared me down and demanded an explanation.
"Better." I don't want to say more, in case I ruin it, this calming as everything returns to normal.
"I texted my mum to pick us up. Do you know what the raven thing was about?" Layla says. I'm glad she's moved away from the subject I've been avoiding.
"No, I'll just take the bus." I say.
"Are you sure?" Layla tenses as she wonders if she's said something wrong.
"I'll be fine, I'll wait a minute, and the busses will be quiet hopefully." I wonder if my words seem less structured, if I seem more uncomfortable than usual.
"O-okay. I'll wait with you." Layla says. I don't protest, and start to wash my hands, to get the horrible feelings off them, like they're physical dirt. I open the door, and we slowly walk outside in the almost abandoned shopping center.
"I'm sorry today wasn't a great day." I say, as we're waiting by the bus stop for the number 24.
"It's okay. By the time we get home, there'll be a news article our parents will fuss over." Layla smiled weakly.
"Yeah. Dad will have already defrosted chicken soup, and put the kettle on for the mandatory comfort-tea." I smile weakly back as the bus arrives.
"Bye, talk tomorrow?" Layla says. I nod.
I scan into the bus, and I settle on the bottom deck, somewhere in the middle, my shopping bag presses against my leg. I watch hedges in gardens, and fences flick by, my phone playing some music video I'm not really paying attention to.
I takes about twenty minutes to get to the bus stop just outside my house, and I use my card to pay, getting off. I peer into the dark of my bus stop, and finding nothing, I turn and put my hand on the gate, unable to shake the feeling something is off, as I step inside my house, away from the quiet street.
YOU ARE READING
A Tale of: Ravens, Scythes and Cherry blossoms
General Fiction'All it takes to consult the dead is a pen, some paper, and a secret you've never told anyone else' Hana is the daughter of death, a hereditary position that has existed for as long as mankind has. She lives through each day with the caw of ravens i...
