Agoraphobia

Agoraphobia Written by Ryan Wada Illustrated by Kelsey Ward

Something squirmed under his arm…

“Not there…not there…not there…” He said.

You’ve lost it, you’re bat shit insane, you’re a disappointment, how could you have turned out this way…

The text seemed to breathe on his phone as he read the lines again and again. The text vanished, the screen blared white at him, he read nothing…like every day.

All he had to do was walk across the park, Union Square, through the shit contemporary art, past the nutjobs like himself only dressed worse, and make it to the rundown apartment. This should be a task like any other: no fuss, no worrying, just one foot in front of the other.

The sun caressed his cheeks, first real day with no clouds, no fog. The movement of his legs through the miasma of memory filled his head with a warm nostalgia. People surrounding him all smiled and nodded. Police officers showed respect, random passersby beamed at his inherent confidence. A sudden jolt hit him in his temples… see the awkward gait of a man trying so hard to seem normal.

You’ve lost it— Idiot— Why are you like th— Can’t walk straight— Who’s watching you—? What’s that kid’s— Go away! RUN!

He bit his tongue. He bit his cheek. Not so hard that blood would dribble from the wounds but hard enough to force him here, now. How long had his walk lasted? Years? Millennia? Eons? 30 seconds. 30 seconds he promenaded across the street towards Union Park. Moved like a stroke victim learning to walk again. His aneurysm affected all the normal parts of his brain. The parts that remembered to breathe, clench his fists, argue with his father in his mind, those parts were perfectly fine.

“Father, allfather, Tuatha, please just… just let it be ok…”

You have lost it, my son. Get to your apartment and you will be safe. I will be there, always…

“Huh…?” An elderly Asian woman was grunting at him, the crosswalk blinked for him to move…move dammit, move! His leg creaked and his knee groaned after moving, finally. His teeth grit, clenching his fists he walked, his legs stuttering on pavement. A bored observer from a park bench would Those safe and sage words made his lungs feel the pull of a new wind. A second wind.

“Good gods you look terrible!”

“Who? What?” Where did this guy come

from? Who was he? A hermit that crept down from the steel mountains to impart wisdom of the old ones?

“Laze?” The man held out a thin graphite looking stick. Laze, that’s what they called it…apparently you stuck it under your tongue like those antique thermometers and it gave you the same effect as smoking cigs, also antique.

“No, thanks.” He just couldn’t pull of the look, never could. Too male, too white, too nothing according to everyone and everything. Just another footnote of a footnote-

Who’s watching— What’s this kid’s problem— The hell is— Where’s he going—?

He gulped down the sour bile in the back of his throat. He pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, soft scratches against a wound that never healed from his nail scraping his gums.

Standing, standing at the beginning of Union park, where people milled about, strange undulating people with shuddering limbs. Strange beings with smiles just a little bit too wide, eyes a little bit too large, limbs a little bit too slick and oily to be skin. He blinked, blinked longer, and clenched his eyelids. Opening his eyes, a picturesque scene of groups milling about. People laughing, lounging on grass, eating from lunch bags. A couple drones buzzed by nothing too invasive, no one cared. The guy to his left, where the corner of the path entrance started, stood there, and took in the sights. “Yeah, pretty gorgeous today. Just out n’ about for a stroll?”

“Home, going home.” Did he sound like that? What’s wrong with his vocal cords? No. No! He cleared his throat, tried to seem normal. “I’m just headin’ home, long day.”

“At 10 in the morning? Shit, don’t wanna ask what kinda night you had then.”

He glanced at his apartment in the distance, his single day of peace was only a short walk away…