Your pain in my thighs 

When I put down my cup I realized this wasn’t going to be the last time. I felt the slap as if it was my own. Like somebody hit me in my thighs with a baseball bat. Stomp. Once. Stomp twice. I looked at my cup, paralyzed and silently. How many times was this? I had lost count. 

The bewildered woman was running in the field. Running as if she knew something was going to hit her, badly. She kept looking over her shoulder, but I couldn’t see her face; it was covered with her wild and curly hair that was hiding her features. Lest I should see it. The coffee in my cup looked like it was moving. Was this me? Was I dizzy? From the woman’s running? From this thought in my head, here in this house? 

Abruptly I stood up. I needed to test this theory. I needed to get away. Get out. Get out of my house. My coat flung to the floor when I ripped of the chair. I landed in front of my cup. That was silent now. Still. Like untouched water. Out, I said to myself. 

I plucked my coat off of the floor and headed for the door. I could see the axe. I could see it once. Then I saw it twice. 

She fell. 

In the field. 

My hand on the doorknob. It shivered. I trembled like I was her. Her pain was my pain. And they knew it. The house knew it. Or it’s inhabitants. I am empathic like that. There is no more difference between you and me when you’re in pain, or grieve or any other trouble. 

She was on the ground. As I was on the floor. Nailed to the ground like a wooden board. My hand still on the doorknob. I needed to get out. Out! Her hair, her wild and curly hair, like strains over her face. My face covered with tears.

The axes had hit her twice. And I was still where I was. On my way out. This is how they keep me in, I say to myself. They paralyze me with their horror. Planting it in my brain as if it was as normal as thinking about bread. Giving me horrible thoughts to put me down. 

It won’t work. 

The door flung open like the Red Sea. 

And I left her there in the field. On the ground. Hit by two axes that felt as if they hit me.

I was free. It was as still as water in me. 

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Premonition playground 

As I pour my coffee into the cup with flowers and butterflies on it and the smell of satisfaction enters my nose, I think of what music I will put on when I’m in the car. In my head I browse my Spotify playlist of favorites, old time classics and newby’s that are on constant repeat. I get eargasms when I think about it. I take a sip from my flower cup and go uh-huh. 

In my mind my fingers touch the screen, swipe over perfect words like ‘Say you won’t let go’ and ‘Slow hands’, sometimes they stop, tap and then swipe again. But then suddenly I’m missing half an arm. How can I browse with half an arm? Where did the other half go?

Shake it off, I say to myself as I try to delete the thought. Delicious coffee, brand new day. But my hand trembles as I bring my coffee cup to my mouth, it’s like a slow motion picture and all I want to do now is fast forward this moment. I suddenly feel so tired, it looks like the whole world is distorted. 

When later in I trod the busy streets of the morning, new coffee in hand, I realize I’m so tired I want to cry. Fall down on my knees, in the middle of the street and cry an endless stream of tears that mean absolutely nothing. I’m so dead beat I can’t walk anymore, I can’t even think anymore. My brain and body are simultaneously giving up functioning and all there is left for me is to produce streams of water as if they could rise high enough they could drown me. 

My eyes are looking down, I feel so drained I can’t get them to rise. But then I nearly bump into someone. And that someone is missing half his arm.

I have been here before. At this premonition playground. But I don’t get to choose where I want to swing. They do. The premonition playground decides which way they will push me. Like they’re the fat guy at the other end of the swing set and I’m going to get launched exactly where they want me. 

Whether loosing my arm or loosing my dignity.