There is a shell in my pocket that my daughter gave me some time long past. I run my fingernail across it’s ridges and sweep my thumb across its silky underside. Cool against my skin, the rhythmic touch calms me.
There is nothing to cause panic. Just people with their voices and their noises. I avoid their eyeline not wanting to feel the judgement of strangers. I focus on the pavement and the shell.
There is nothing to fear but my heart beats like rabbit’s; far too fast. No predator hunts me but my feet rush me like prey sensing the chase. It’s exhausting walking here to there. Unseen within my pocket, over and over the shell turns.
There is no reason for my nerves to be on edge, I’ve walked these streets many times before. I know my direction and my destination, but I am lost. I grasp the shell in my hand, hoping my seaside talisman might guide me.
Finally, I reach my block, safe and unimposing; I hold onto the shell. I clamber up the stairwell, well-lit and well-kept; I hold onto the shell. I reach my door and cross the threshold, the safety of home; at last I let go of the shell.
I hang my coat upon its peg, leave the shell within its pocket.
Word Count: 220
Writer’s Note:
This is another flash fiction I’ve written, which isn’t entirely fictional. I do indeed have a shell in one of my coat pockets that I grip and let my fingers fidget with when I’m feeling anxious. I cannot always explain why I feel anxious or why some days I feel a panic attack coming on but having something tactile to redirect my focus helps. If it’s not a shell, then it’s a screwed up receipt or a pebble or my house keys.
Mikaela Walker - Writer 