They're Not There

No. No, no, no. It can't happen. I can't let it happen.

The sun creeps up the horizon and slowly encompasses the world in its post-twilight glory. The feeble yellow rays land gently on her messy bun of loosely tied frizzy hair, exposing its magenta tinge in much the same way that a magician reveals a hidden rabbit. She cowers instinctively from the light, a visceral tug inside her causing her hands to reach up of their own accord and cover her hair.

I can't let them find me. They can't find me. They've already taken away too much.

And yet, she can't move. She remains paralyzed on the floor, not even able to rock back and forth to soothe her frayed nerves like they do in the movies she's seen. Looking at her from the outside, all you'd see would be a ball of grey topped by a dark covered head. She almost looks like a pencil. Except she can't write, can't express, can't move. Can't move, can't move, can't move.

Their eyes sting. I have to protect myself. I have to throw off the force of their being.

She remembers, yet she forgets. She remembers what it was like before. She misses the good parts. But she can't remember them without recalling the bad days, the days when she felt like no-one understood her, like she might as well grow an extra head for all the difference it would make in the way they viewed her, in the way she viewed herself. She hated being hurt by them, but she hated hurting them more. It made her feel like she was one of them, and she didn't want to be. She wanted to be part of something, something that wasn't that, something that wasn't them. They'd upset her too much already, whether they meant to or not.

I can't hear them.

The distinctness of the noises fades away. The sounds become enmeshed in one big aura of hustle and bustle. They become easier to ignore, easier to withdraw from. The pounding subsides. She can hear the hum of the birds and the chirping of the crickets. She can hear one of her favourite songs playing. She can hear the soothing sound of her mother's voice and the laughing guffaw of her father. She can hear her own laugh, less gruff but still raw, still pure, still happy.

I can't see them. 

As her eyes adjust to the darkness they are engulfed in, images begin to appear. She sees herself with her head thrown back, hysterically laughing at something. She sees herself talking to the woman on the street with her four children, before the accident that killed her. She sees him walk towards her and ask her what was wrong. She sees the day she found out she'd been accepted at college and could start over.

I can't smell them.

It isn't there anymore. The smell of rats, alley cats, fleas, urine and food gone bad. Instead, her nostrils pick up a scent of homemade fried chicken, of ta'leyya, of chocolate, of pasta. She can smell roses and salt and wind on the beach. She can smell one of her favourite shampoos. She can smell the scent she always picked up whenever she came back home after a long holiday.

They're not there.