From toe to ankle, creepy crawlies cover my Converse and jeans: centipedes, scorpions, beetles, worms …
And more spiders.
A wave of nausea floods my stomach and rises to my throat.
If pure fear has a texture, it’s stiff and blunt. It rubs against my insides, hulking and callous. I shrink into myself. Into the vile, mucky greens and browns of anxiety and panic. With a sharp inward pull, I retreat smaller and smaller.
Air consumes me and slices into my skin like shattered glass.
But beside me, the violin plays on …
The bugs remain transfixed. Ichiro’s true nature on exhibition.
I am his prey; my suffering, his ecstasy.
I lift my chin.
Mind over matter. Endure.
“What happened after you died?” I ask.