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CELEBRATING CREATIVE EXPRESSION AT BAYLOR SINCE 1966

Periaktoi Writing Post

Volume 53
Issue 2

Single Visual Art Post

  • Essay
Quiet Sea of Hysteria
Krishna Chanamolu

 

Quiet, it was quiet. It was never this quiet in Philly, no matter where you went, there was always noise. Cars, sewage, people, anything, but not silence. Even robbers made some noise when they broke a window or accidentally triggered a car alarm. Thinking that I was delusional or hungover I walked downstairs and poured myself a cup of coffee. I live in a small duplex close to the Convention Center so sleep was hard to come by, but I managed to get a decent amount in everyday. I worked as a Set Designer for a local theatre and I also dabbled in some YouTube from time to time but nothing really that big. My apartment was perfect for a single guy who had decided long ago that people weren’t worth it. The bedroom was on the top floor, and the living room and kitchen were on the bottom. In my living room was a couch, a gaming chair, and a gun cabinet where I keep a .45 handgun and a rifle which my dad— a huge gun fanatic— gave to me as a gift. It was small but cheap for a duplex and I loved it. Taking long sips of my coffee, I walked to my door and bent down to get the paper, for I always got it first thing in the morning, but I found that it wasn’t there. That puzzled me as the paper was always at the foot of my door at 5:00 AM on the dot as that’s when the mailman brought packages as well. Talking myself out of a panic attack, I got on the phone and looked up the news and all the latest gossip which kept me busy for quite some time, as I do love gossip even, though I knew it was false. 

After that I looked at the clock and saw that it was 6:30; time to get ready. I took a shower and put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and headed to work; it wasn’t a very far walk and it was good for my health so I always walked. As I walked, I realized that there was no one on the streets; this freaked me out as it was not proper; it was not right. I walked up to a shop and looked around one more time, then I smashed the window with a rock that I had found, and no one came out to see what caused the noise. “Maybe the good old policy of out of sight out of mind?” I think to myself. “FIRE!” I scream.

No one comes.

“HELP!, I am being robbed!” I scream.

No one comes.

I sprint back to my apartment and shut the door. Maybe I’m delusional, maybe I’m crazy. I must be as what I did next confirms this. Taking a knife, I cut my hand to see if I could feel the pain.

I didn’t feel it, most likely because I was having an adrenaline rush as my mind decided what to do, for the flight and fight were in control and took control they did. They decided to fight, to fight this sickness in my eyes, and with the knife I stabbed my ears to rid them of disease and then I tore my eyes from my skull to peel away the sickness of my mind. Now I saw colour, bright vibrant colour forming beautiful shapes and pretty pattern. They weaved into cloth and rode the waves of my thought, but I could not hear the waves and I could not smell the cloth, could not hear the sound of a loom at work or wool being turned into a flat plane to then be made into clothes, I could not feel the cloth, smooth like silk. At least it looked like silk. It started to make another shape, that of a demon, a creature from hell coming to take the wool away. “No” I bellow out loud, “You cannot have the cloth, this wool is mine”. The demon laughs at me and stomps, no glides toward the wool. it glides gracefully toward it, not like a demon but an angel.

I stumble around my apartment to the gun cabinet which was never locked.

The demon got closer to the wool.

I managed to get ahold of the ammunition of the rifle and the gun itself, and I loaded it.

The demon touches the fabric and smiles at me.

I point the gun at the demon.

The demon starts to laugh.

I shoot the gun.

I watched as they watched me, from the sea that I once saw. They saw me with a look of horror as their fantasy twisted into a sickening horror. I could not hear their words. Their justifications for leaving me with that thing, but they do not see the thing, only the consequences of that thing. I relax knowing that the demon is dead, the fabric resting, as I sail forward on a sea of my own thoughts, no longer turbulent, but calm and gentle. No longer moving through a series of complex patterns, but a few simple thoughts. I may now rest with ease.