The Prop Man
My mother warned me this would happen but I didn’t listen and before I knew it, the term crept up on me. I didn’t see its tendrils wrapping around my torso, my legs or my neck; the touch was faint like the warmth of a scarf on a breezy autumn day about which you forget until suddenly your body is being yanked back when the scarf’s woolly tassels get stuck in the bus’ door. You are being strangled in front of the commuters’ eye audience before somehow you manage to pull the tassels out and you scramble out onto the sidewalk, pretending the last fifteen seconds never happened. When I realised the word fit me, it was too late - red marks were already etched into the skin of my neck, too bright to attempt to hide under my flatmate's concealer and I cursed my mother for always having to be right.