انا خايف عليك

I est strawberries in a garden full of flowers. Bees hum from peonies to roses to ivy on the walls of a small wall that runs through it all. It isn‘t tall, but separating nonetheless. One small bee is called George. They fly from the east side to the west side of the garden, just like they always do. Almost hopping through the air on their tiny wings, legs overbearing with pollen. George is happy, as happy as can bee. When he arrives at the wall, a hawk, Tabitha, shoots down from the green ocean of the sky. Claws tear into George’s bouncing body, pollen scattering everywhere. George is no more.

I sit in the garden looking on, a single tear shesding itself for George. The strawberries taste like muffled liver now. Paulette approaches one of the copious rivers that cross the garden. She hops, as toads do. There’s a new array of blisters on her back, shaped like a heart. Her green eyes are aware. The flow hears her coming and welcomes with a gurgling “Greetings!”. As she bends down to drink, the earth starts to shake. A small quake I think, when a 2002 Toyota Celica cracks open the surface of the garden and reveals themselves, with a displeased expression. Paulette can feel the wheels approaching. An ancestral shock goes through her. The ground beneath is now paved New York City roads. Like Jean and Billy and Tom and Gene and Bily and Tomm and Jeane and Billly and Thom she is: flattened. On. The. Ground.

I get up and two more rivers have joined the garden, only on my face. I snivel and sob. I shout and I cry. The Celica apologises and flies away. So does the river Paulette drank out of. Horrible cramps haunt my abdomen. I have a womb now, angry at me. The earth starts fleeing from me. All that is left behind is void. A damp and unnerving throbbing begins to pound against the wall. The wall is now a door. It is being knocked. The door itself seems afraid of what is coming.

Courage surges through an ancient part of me. I eat one more strawberry before I leave. The sky starts burning, waves lapping against the void. Returning is always hard. A beeping has started, as if from far away. A jingle joins in, as do vibrations, erratic and scattered in the soundscape. The giant armadillo beckons me.

George, Tabitha, Paulette. Names you can’t associate anymore. A toad and a hawk and a river and a car and a bee and flowers and cracks in wombs and pain in a void and fire over a garden. You feel the world be sucked into a drain inside your head, swirling for an eternity that lasts 5 seconds. Eat that strawberry, you don’t know when you’ll have to leave.

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