Panic Attack

It's no good, I'm out of obscure references to classical mythology and overwrought metaphors. The world, real and immediate, is retaking this intellectual enclave of mine. Sweating hands and shaking legs straining against synthetic materials, I can feel every breath the people around me take. Acid taste in my mouth, not really listening now. Head down, I have to get out of here. Rows and rows of people, sitting calmly, what's wrong with them? Can't they see what's going to happen?

All of a sudden I can feel my heartbeat and the dark brown floor is coming in and out of focus very quickly now. They can't see, I can't let them see. This is my secret and if they see me like this it's a victory for them. I'm trying to keep my composure but then there's a hand on my shoulder jarring me back to the here and now and I can't get out. I can't let this beat me, I need to stop my hands from shaking. If I don't the last word I hear will be 'Sir?' in a worried voice and then people in suits looking compassionate.

This room is clear and stark and every detail of it is in sharp relief in my mind. I can smell the acrid cleaning stuff on the floors outside, I can see the cracks on the edges of the big brown boards telling us our heritage, the outside world cut off by thick, stained glass. A dais full of men in gowns delivering speeches I force myself to listen to because boredom beats paranoia now doesn't it?

I can feel the tension rippling across my body and now people are standing and I can hardly move. A violent whirlwind of dark blazers and confidence bustles out of doors, carrying me along with it. Head down I am tripping over other peoples' things but that isn't important I just need to be somewhere else. A sandy beach in El Salvador doesn't seem very possible right now, so I settle for a locked stall in the men's room and a red penknife with a little white cross on it. Sitting here with my shirt sleeves up, being very quiet, I can feel my metaphors coming back.

Clean up the blood, roll down the sleeves then back out into the world, and hope no-one asks why there's no colour in my face. Then sitting in lessons, catching myself rubbing my fingers up and down the old scar on the back of my left hand, getting lost in thought. Then walking to the station trying to forget the things I wished I'd done, looking at road signs and wondering about wrong turns, and stopping myself from leaping off an over-lit platform in front of a dirty train filled with sweating people wanting to get home.

Head down past the faces in hoods at the station, then a long walk on empty streets to a dysfunctional suburban haven. There isn't much sanctuary to be found here.

'So how was your day?'