Uncomfortable. Rage. Helpless.

The feelings course through me as I watch people I love face internal demons, their own bodies repeatedly betraying them. I watch as a spasm crosses my father's face, as he tries to hide the involuntary twitch of his leg. His expression forcibly smoothed, a brief grimace forced into a smile. After so many years, he's not blind to the uncomfortable expressions on others faces, their poorly shielded pity obvious as their eyes dart around the room. I stare back, keeping the biting edge of my anger quelled beneath a reassuring smile of my own. Accustomed to watching one thing after another attempt to eat at my father's determination.

Acceptance is not always the antidote to rage.

We are the generation breed on fear of an apocalypse. Not by a preacher before a pulpit, but by artists and authors, who have scripted their way into the minds of the children of the future. Raised on technology, accustomed to greed and spite. The signs all point us in the way of the horsemen.

So we screw ourselves away, cynicism spreads from unfulfilled promises. War and violence broadcasted to us from every angle. Reborn into a world where we have no jobs, no money, while being buried alive from debts we cannot hope to pay back.

The millennium, the Aztecs. All foretelling. Now war is coming from all angles. The once holy land being torn. Children dying useless deaths. Casualties of a terror that has spread it's fingers to all corners.

So I sit up at night. Typing away midnight musings. Keeping peaceful sleep from my wanting grasp. I turn on a show. Something light, funny. A lie to help me dream.

Time passes too quickly.

All to aware of what will be missed.

A laugh, a smile. The annoying habits of the ones you love most. Your sweet dog slipping into old age. Suddenly you notice how grey your fathers hair is. How your little brother has turned into a man. Tears fall as you turn through photos of your smiling self at ages 3, 6, 12. Wishing you could go back. Rewind. To enjoy the freedom of childhood with the eyes of an adult.

I peered into our spacious closet. Despite the airy room and the ceiling fan going strong, I could feel the sweat beading down the curves of my spine. I made my way to the drawers, shifting my way through the layers of chiffon and silk to find my favorite old cotton t-shirt. Finally I find it, hidden in the back corner, full of wrinkles, worn thin from years of being tumbled dry.

“Sweet Pea, what are you doing?” I froze with the shirt held out in front of me. My back turned to the honeyed voice in the door.

“Just wanted something to wear that breathed a little, the humidity is making me miserable.” I spoke in my most polite tone, lowering the shirt a little to hide it from view. “I thought you had gone into the office.”

I heard his feet move closer, a sinking feeling in my gut as his hands came down authoritatively on my shoulders.

“You know, I thought we had thrown that shirt out. Don’t you think you would be so much more comfortable in that yellow sundress I like so much?” He reached forward, taking the shirt in his hand, “You know the Carvers said they might stop by this afternoon, you wouldn’t want them to feel embarrassed because you weren’t put together, now would you?”

I force my tense shoulders to rotate with my legs, turning to face my husband, now in full control of the offensive shirt.

“Well, dear, I don’t know that they would be embarrassed to see me in a t-shirt and shorts, but no, I don’t mind wearing that sundress. Would you like for me to make anything special for when they come over?”

I see anger ripple across his features, gone before I could tell you exactly what it was that changed.

He stepped forward and wrapped me in his arms; I force my shoulders to relax, to curve into his embrace.

“Now Sweet Pea, you know I think you are beautiful no matter what, but I’m the only one who will ever think that. So don’t you think you should always try and look the best you can for everyone else?”

Tears threaten to come up as I feel my teeth jerk together. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pulling away to see glassy, defeated eyes. Not this time.

The words.

They have been missing.

From my head, lips, hands.

They left me alone.

I needed them.

Leaving everything inside

with no escape.

The costs build up.

Always with the pressure.

I numb myself.

Reclusive.

Suddenly,They are back.

Poking, prodding, pushing

Keeping sleep away

with a forceful edge.

Settling when released.

I have a hand that lives around my heart.

I feel it there. My heart resting in its calloused Palm.

Careful now. Don't breath in too deep. Not wanting the knuckles to press into the wrong side of my chest.

The hand likes to squeeze my heart. I feel where each finger contracts into the resistants.

My heart beats faster, my breath more ragged. My vision blurred, my pulse racing. A cold sweat forms and the walls begin to shrink in.

I wait for the hands to finish their fun. Until it wants to play again.