Amygdala (Part 1 aka. The Beginning)

It is three o'clock in the morning. I sit in the swings by the beach crying. My underwear is stuffed full of money, rape has been feared throughout the night. Tom has moved away for the summer, and I have one of my nervous breakdowns.

I’m thinking about father yelling at the empty Ice hockey field.

I’m thinking about father in straitjacket.

I’m thinking about father jolting in electric shock therapy.

I’m thinking about mother telling this to me, as a warning.

Sonja sends a message, she is not coming tomorrow. Allergies. I told that I haven’t had any sleep in three days and that I’m convinced that the secret-society of leftist theater/art/hippies is trying to murder me. I ask Sonja has she heard about such plans. She says she hasn’t. She is obviously lying. Even though I know she isn’t.

Sonja explains something about her running nose, it doesn’t interest me, but I listen because it's polite. When Sonja finally stops jabbing about her mucus, I tell her quickly that I just saw a raccoon and two bats, seven brown hares and three taxis. I say that I can’t stand to be without Tom. Sonja reminds me that three months is short time, I remind her that it is not.

I tell that these swings are our place. I tell that everything has turned red, but there is no need to worry, it’s only blood in the veins of my eyes, the iron in my blood oxidizes in the moonlight. Sonja thinks that it might be better if I try to sleep. I think that I can’t.

My flat has two unknown persons. The clock is four in the morning. Those unknown peoples smell like people who have slept many hours in confined space – bad.

My feet smell horrible when I sneak past my guests. Opened the ventilation window, it creaked like a cliché. I stop to listen, neither woke up. I remove almost all of my clothes. I lie eyes open for hours without blanket and thinking about how many minutes till I have to get up. How embarrassing is to have such a smelly feet. How embarrassing it is to have ventilation window that creaks like a cliché. If only I could be fully naked. If only pharmacies were open 24/7.  If only, if only, sung the tumor as it grew to the upper lip of the not so friendly inner voice that lives behind my amygdala.