Life, Tightly Grasped

Indented into my palm, like a thousand other times, I can feel its jagged edges prick places on my calloused skin. The sore spot on the base of my palm, from where my fingers have pressed, what feels like the last of my life, and luck, to arrive safely behind solid doors and walls.

I’ve almost begun to loath this small trinket, despite it’s connection to my safety. I loath its shape and weightless demeanor, its indestructible nature, but mostly I can’t stand what’s inside. What I view each time I return to the only place I have left to trust.

Each step closer to the door carries me deeper into the peril that I have persuaded my mind into believing is the illusion. My breath and crunching steps, a steady rhythm, creating the soundtrack through which my mind drifts into another waking reality. Slipping deeper into the inner recesses of my deepest fears and longings, my heart begins to race with its typical anticipation, and a numbness spreads throughout my limbs. My first days were full of terror and trepidation, the thrill of it all had not yet reached it’s nexus, had not yet become the emotional discharge that I required to keep what sanity I had left.

Squeezing my hand tighter, keeping pace, my sweat drops like blood from the place in my hand I have my not-so-trifle plaything stored. As the carefully constructed choreography begins to unfurl itself, cascading through the desolate and empty streets, I am no longer survivor, refugee of a world long gone. I am the prima ballerina, this is Sleeping Beauty, and I am Aurora. These six minutes have begun to define the strength of character carried in my veins, that molds and erects great structures to protect the soft and delicate vulnerabilities, that make up my daily repertoire.

The swiftness that has been propelling my legs forward, like an elk who escapes the hunter, is beginning to slow, as the more intricate entanglements begin to arrive on my path. With my eyes closed I feel myself sway and stretch, tumbling, gracefully from one foot to the other, toppling, graciously over carefully laid decoys that attempt to allure the mind into careless omissions that would seek to end the world I have just begun to build. The world in which only my plans have begun to grow and are burgeoning, the point of harvest where shoulders fall with pride rather than shame. Effortless concentration returning to the fluidity of each limb as it contracts and expands, contorting to the sacred shapes I have grown so accustomed to. To grow tired or careless, is to grow fond of death.

I have arrived at the strictest passage, the one requiring the most delicacy, and therefore, the most trust in myself and my ability to know my surroundings more intimately than I know my fear. No finger flick misjudged or mistimed, and a final act of agility. A moment where life itself suspends, awaiting the safe arrival of my calm return, as the locket that has been pressed to my palm, has found its way through the air, and across the breathless sky. Where nimble fingers have trapped single links, dangling the locket below, before drawing it back safely, placing it in my pocket for the duration of my pilgrimage, accompanied by a new protector of leathered skin.

The intricate exchange, the sleight of hand, the perfect illusion; the empty rush to ensure the small reprieve to return to my black-market domicile.

One last move to disappear into the shadows, to drop from the attention of all who might notice the bit of shiny metal clutched so tightly. Opening it, posed, readying myself to press it into the mechanism that controls the forged metal door.

Passing before my own eyes, I can’t help but to catch a glimpse, as my stomach falls. The youthful etching of initials, worn, scribbled. I don't bother to flip to see the other side, my fingers have traced those markings too often. Pressing the open locket deeper, keeping it hidden from sight, relief begins to swell as metal creaks and groans giving a slight jerk, as the door opens just enough for me to slip in.

Pressing all my weight, I shift the door back closed and, surrendering to the floor, crumpling on top of myself.

Head in hands, I sit, covered in sweat and tears. Spending innumerable minutes attempting to collect myself, to get my thoughts to stop swimming from one ear to the other. Raising my head from my hands, a yellow haze begins to form as my vision clears to find what I always find.

Home.