Delicate Disquiet

The tubular of my inner ear vibrates with some distant echo. Screams indescribable. A shrill beast crept uneasily. After an endless moment, the deep, soulless groan ceased the churning of sounds. I imagine the creature will move more quickly now, taking mere moments for the spread of disease to reach my spine. Another distorted cry released to the languid wind. A battle call. The breadth of humanity cradling last hope. This was the signal to run.

I was surrounded by the one vessel sure enough to kill me. People, numbers of them, stood a motionless mass barricading the open courtyard. Everyone is listening. The Shrill had paused, tightening muscles of the crowd. We gnaw on thoughts of blood-thirsty entrapments; these silent confessions. Shopping bags and large logos clung to quivering bodies, crinkling under the tension. Heads still, in waiting. The vicious rasping of vocal cords change, and I am suddenly aware of every skin cell in my preserved flesh. Chaos came with a wave of the crowd. Confused movement in all directions, prodding me with product, their misguided steps a vice against freedom.

An instinct has my sole moving with intention. Determined to maintain protection, I push my way to the small shop marked House of Blades. Located down a tentacle of the shopping mall spread, facades of glass threaten to shatter. Stampedes are exiting in majority. A skittering of others dance between displays of vanity and war.

Again, transmuting sounds of shrieking murder. Frenzy indulged. With acquired tools snatched from the sidelines, I step up to look over the crowd. Relaxing my overextended senses heightens a deeply ingrained instinct. Movement in the distance becomes lucid. A ping of intuition has me tilt my head to the left. The air hints pungent, sopping with heat that sticks in the throat. I cough out the rancid, quickly over it as my ear picks out where the creature seethes just far enough away. In rapid successes, I weave further distance.

…

It had been out of place, this compulsion to stand right next to her. So near, hearing gentle breath rest briefly when perhaps she noticed me. She kept her cheeks rounded downward, soaked with sadness. Around her, a bedroom is set up on the wraparound porch, midst halfway moved out households, odds and ends set up and abandoned. It wasn’t fear I felt, but something like its cousin. Dread maybe. She had been crying at a desk in front of a looking glass like a makeshift vanity. Sweetness and vulnerability shuddered under her sighs. She, a type of vibrancy. Too quickly, unwanted thoughts gave way to mourning. I wondered how the ravage world would change her, and I found myself caring for this perfect stranger.

She was almost aware of me, unmoved. Behind her reflection was a large window. Blue sky sitting atop a stage of golden fields. Overgrown wheat-lined chained linked fences. Beyond that, a path taken by ancients leading to a gleam in the hills. Her back sat curved outward to greet it.

Violent organisms gut out horrors that spill into every neighborhood, these sounds not meant for living voices. But here, in silence, skin reddening, the hot air warming us like a hug, we embrace a stillness disturbingly comfortable. Welcomed, soft wind. How does peace sit with turmoil so quietly, so somber and eternally yearning, submissive, unbeaten? Yielding gives harmony a hope. This came to mind as I offered my hand upon her shoulder.

“Let me take care of you,” I said, with delicate request.

Forcing strength to her neck, she nodded and brought her face towards mine. My heart leapt at its calamitous beauty. She gave a smile.

I helped her to stand. Her arms dangled loosely aside my shoulders before dropping them against her body. Through the front, past the large empty dining hall, along a hallway with a door at the end. An undisturbed note in the shadows taped on the door stating sweet familial goodbyes within. I changed pace, pivoting to readjust her gaze. Straight ahead.

We stopped at the large mirror in the bathroom. Bold edges of painted filigree shaped our faces. Sanguine and haggard under the bright lights, angels must look like this. From there, my movements were automatic, caring, tender. I stood at her forefront as I ran the water down the sink, letting it cool over my hands before cupping them.

“Let me wash you,” I said.

She consented with a gesture and I began bringing water to her face, carefully caressing stains. It was intimate and tragic. Her skin came alive under my pulse. Calm replaced stifling aromas and shades of distortion. She was my single priority in these moments. The scream within her quieted for now. A wave of peace again for us both this time. I’ve brought her hands into mine, showing her the motions to repeat this cleansing. The message down the hall flashed to memory. She will face trauma with time, as ready. When she does, I won’t be there. Hypothetical images of a pending journey came back to me, the dawn of our own paths, striking in oppositional tones. I closed the door behind me, carefully, like a heart-shaped locket.

It was a tenderness that stayed with me long into the day. Later, my voice raised to the hilltop like a declaration of ownership,

“It will be these reprieves of humanness that save me from the beast of man.”