Some Call it Baseless Fear

I can feel it again, that surge of dread that settles into the depths of my stomach until something unbelievably terrible finally happens. It happened only once before, but I was written off as “emotionally unstable” or some other made up bullshit people use to validate these unjustifiable feelings. Maybe it’s a worldwide anxiety, like the onset of World War III. I hope so. It would be much less painful if the entire global population was involved in this terror instead of it engulfing exclusively my world. That might offend some people. So be it. But I’d rather have the next world war than lose someone I love. If they implement the outdated mandate for a draft, I’ll simply gather up those eligible in my life and flee on a bus to Canada. I’ve always liked the snow; it makes it increasingly more difficult for zombies to attack you.

They like to tell me that this feeling accompanies “that time of the month” when emotions are heightened and rationale nonexistent. They’re men of course, men I’d love see plaster on a plastic smile and pretend the world is a beautiful place when there are tiny trolls throwing such a ravenous rave in their uterus, that it turns into an all-out brawl and everybody dies. That’s not the reason for this alarm anyway, though it seems to be their favored explanation for most things.

Perhaps it was a result of the winged creatures that hatched a season too early, when a warm front moved over New England in mid-December. They’re the moth-like critters, guided by light, that aren’t supposed to see the light of day until early spring. The rejected butterflies have no idea that by the next frost, their tiny bodies will be frozen to the blade of grass where they once found life. This happened a couple years ago and to my surprise, come spring time, there was still a surplus of their species fluttering around. Survival of the fittest, I guess.

My mind spirals down that dauntingly realistic path of petrifying incidents that could befall my loved ones. I let it go through the motions- there’s no stopping it once it begins its slow roll of torturous vices. Eventually it concludes the cruel process and I’m still left wondering the origins of this increasingly alarming feeling.

Maybe I’m just crazy. Enough people have told me so and I’m beginning to doubt my true level of sanity these days. But I prefer to think of my proposed insanity as heightened creativity, so I reject that premise as well. I guess sometimes you don’t get to know. Your mind can only take you so far before you have to relinquish your fate to the universe.

Then, as quickly as that fear pierced my life, it was gone. A white light replaced my world and I woke strapped to hardened bed and to even harder stares. They looked like nice people, but their faces were void of emotion, lifeless, colorless, and almost not human. That panic returned and I made one attempt to jerk myself out of this placid hell only to whack my head on the back of a car seat. Blood seeped into my cracked steering wheel as I touched my throbbing forehead; I couldn’t help but flinch at the blinding pain. Shattered glass littered my once pristine floors and I struggled to take in the sight of untainted destruction. My crunched hood filled my line of sight as the sound of sirens drew nearer. The deep seeded dread was real. I just never thought it would be for me.