WRITTEN BY ANDY

Bart exhaled. Warm coffee breath filled the space in front of his face, creating an invisible
cloud of aromatic moisture. He exhaled deeply again, addicted to the relief it brought in the middle
of a quiet Midwestern townperhaps too quiet for anyone feel settled at all.
He walked out to his patio and looked to his right. Mrs. Sheffield was sitting on her old
rocking chair, sipping chamomile tea from her antique teacup. She noticed him and her eyes bulged
with threat, slapping on a frown before closing her curtains and windows fiercely. Bart gazed with
apathy, taking another sip from his cup.
Great, Bart thought. The feeling is mutual.
His wooden chair creaked as Bart shifted from side to side before settling down on his seat.
With every movement, he felt the degeneration in his bones. Was there no place for a man his age?
Americans value productivity, and it was evident that he was way past his prime. The wind blew
across the desolate street. The area was lined with small, identical and concrete houses. They had
very little windows and entrances, often sealed off with grills and curtains for privacyit was almost
the case where you could never tell if people had hung themselves inside. This was where the
American waste was left to rot and die.
Maybe he had so much more in common with Mrs. Sheffield than he thought, and the idea
of that repulsed him. He had observed some dangerous signs of him turning into a bitter,
purposeless and selfish old man; the ones that made kids run away with terror even without a
Halloween costume. The clock ticked by the second and he felt himself rotting away with every
movement of its minute-hand. He caressed the faded tattoo at his nape. There was not much time
left.
He returned to his library and flipped through the pages of one of his favourite historical
books. Perhaps it was time for him to go on a vacation; being around Mrs. Sheffield for the past few
years had proved to be very damaging to his psyche, and he didnt feel like he belonged here
anymore. He stopped at a picture of a Buddhist scripture, one of the many works of a respected
monk who had dedicated his life to translating the sacred words of his religion diligently. Then, it
struck him.
He should spend the remaining years of his life in a temple.
Why didnt he think of that sooner? Changing his eating habits wasnt a problemhe was
already vegetarian anyway. Plus, he would be better off without being surrounded by obnoxious
Americans, and monks are more moderate people. Imagine a lifestyle filled with Zen, being
surrounded by monks who didnt speak his language (minimal human interaction was a plus in his
books) and a view which overlooked the mountains every day of his life. He jumped in delight at the
thought of it and celebrated his great idea by making himself another hot cup of coffee. He had
never felt this excited about something.
Cold beads of sweat formed at Barts temples. He was trying not to pass out.
As if squeezing through a crowd of strangers wasnt scary enough, he had to be physically
violated during the security check-up. The sporadic shivers that spread from his gut all the way up to
his throat was heightened when he got on the plane and was seated in a proper fashion, fastened
seatbelt and all. He had been on a plane before, but it has been a while. The plane gained its
speedwhich felt like a terror ride to Bartand lost contact with the ground shortly after. It felt like
he had left his heart on the ground, and this left him with a strange feeling of regret. Was this what
he really wanted?
After a long and agonizing flight, the plane had finally landed on the transit city. Bart let out
a sigh of reliefalthough a temporary one, as he knew that this was surely not the end of it. He
went to a convenience store and paid for a sandwich, which had foreign letters printed neatly on the
wrapper. A feeling of comfort had always managed to grow on Bart when he was in an environment
where it was not possible for a two-way conversation. After all, one could get by with informal sign
language. A conversation meant effort and communicating ones feelings to a certain extent, and
such intimacyhe thoughtwas only reserved for his lover. He unwrapped his sandwich, but
stopped abruptly after recognizing a familiar face.
Curses, Bart muttered under his breath grudgingly. He had felt comfortable too soon.
What is she doing here?
Mrs. Sheffield noticed Bart as well, and there was no way they could avoid this encounter.
She mumbled something in a manner just as grudgingly as Bart, but walked over to greet him
anyway. It had been a few years since they exchanged words.
Hello, Mr. Thatcher. What a coincidence. This is an odd choice for a vacation trip, she
sneered.
No, Im not here for a trip, Bart explained patiently. Im just killing an hour of transit time
before leaving for my flight again. This was probably the longest conversation he had held with her
in years.
Ah, okay. Well, have fun then
Bart cut her off. Yeah, bye. He dug his hands in his pockets, lowered his gaze and turned
away from her, making quicker steps towards a far-away mens washroom, even though he didnt
have the urge. It was not long until he was startled by Mrs. Sheffields scream.
OH MY GOD, ARE YOU WITH THE ILLUMINATI? Her face was distorted with horror.
Bart stopped in his tracks. What was she talking about? Then he had a sudden realization
and reached out to touch the back of his neck. Ah, he said softly.
DONT YOU DARE TOUCH THAT THING, I KNOW YOU PEOPLE ARE THE ONES BEHIND THE
ANTICHRIST, she trembled with hostility.
Bart could feel the attention drawn to him now, as the piercing glances and the noise of
ignorant gossip from passers-by were starting to get to him. His heart was beating rapidly, and he
felt the goose-bumps on his arm as he clutched his elbow with his other hand. He didnt know what
to say. He parted his mouth; not to speak, but to breathe because he needed more oxygen than
beforehe didnt know if it was because he needed to prevent his head from feeling too light and
detached from the rest of him or survive from being choked to death by an invisible hand. Bart tried
to regain autonomy in his mind, but he couldnt move physically. He didnt know this, but he was not
frozen in a thick block of ice.
There was no way of making out how long he had been crouching on the ground, but as
soon as he looked up to see a worried Mrs. Sheffield standing cautiously with her bags scattered
around her, he fumbled to get on his feet and darted clumsily towards his original destination before
the whole situation happened, shutting the door of the cubicle behind him and locking it in
desperation.
He panted furiously, placing both of his hands against the wall of the cubicle for support.
After his rapid breathing gradually decreased, he leaned against the opposite cubicle wall and sat on
the cold and damp floor. He never meant for it to happen, especially not like this. These moments
have stopped haunting him ever since he lived in that small house made from concrete, sealed off
and covered with grills and curtains so protectively that no one can tell if its inhabitants had hung
themselves, drowned in their own anxiety or screamed for helpbut of course, no one knew so they
closed their curtains and locked their doors even more, engulfed in the privacy of their own
suffering.
Bart looked at his watch. Ten minutes until his flight would take off. A distorted, glossy
image of himself was projected right in front of him, a reflection from the cubicle wall. What if
another attack ensued? Was travelling this far from home the right thing to do? He watched as his
reflection reached for the nape of his neck again. His tattoo was inked in the shape of an eye during
his teenage years, hoping that it would catch anything that he had missed or left behind. It always
gave him comfort that he was allowed to do so.
Five more minutes. Tick, tock, tick, tock. He could feel himself rotting away again, just like he
did back at home. Four closed walls never did any good for people, Bart decided. He got up and
unlocked the door; a barrier that had been keeping him safe from his fears as he ran towards the
exit, trying to catch his last flight.