Sick

By Kore Ziegler

My mother protects me, even when I can’t see her. She tells me over and over again, “You’re not sick.”

I trust her, like I always have.

“Always look both ways before crossing a street.”

“Never stray far from my sight.”

“Don’t stop holding my hand.”

I listen to her.

I never let myself forget the heat of her fingers laced through my hand, or the dull pain of her stubbed nails pressed into my flesh.

“Don’t you die,” she cries over and over and over.

I try to listen.

She warns me, always keep the light on or face the mutilated darkness, twisting and warping, embodying fear itself.

Fear will get you when you least expect it, so flick that light switch 4 times no more and no less.

Allow your eyelids to flutter open and close 8 times, no more and no less.

Check underneath your bed as many times as it takes to comfort and soothe yourself into believing Fear is gone, even though you know deep down it is never gone.

You will never be safe, but at least you won’t die.

My mother scolds me, wash your hands.

Over and over and over again. Wash them with scalding hot water until your skin burns, until you see rosebuds of red splotches across your palms, until blistering cuts crack across your knuckles. Wash them again, it wasn’t good enough that time. Wash them again, you missed a spot.

Wash them again, again, again until I stop whispering in your ear, and you know I’m finally gone.

Don’t touch that handrail.

Don’t let your fork stray from the safety of your plate. Don’t hold that door for the frail old lady, even when you feel the desire aching in your temples, hammering at your rib cage.

Don’t be a good person, don’t be a sane person. It will get you killed.

Don’t touch me.

Avoid me, try to erase me.

Cover your eyes, your mouth, your ears. Even still, I’ll seep through like a sea of salt water, stinging your cuts and burning your eyes and dancing upon your finger tips. I’ll fill your throat, and you’ll struggle for air.

You’ll be forced to wrap your hands around your throat, and you’ll be horrified to see me standing before you with mutated limbs and six different eyes, with infected nail beds and rotting skin.

Don’t touch me, for I am Beast, and I am Fear, and you will become just like me. You’ll be sick and disgusting and incurable and you’ll die. Listen to your mother. She only wants what’s best for you.

I listen because I love her. She’s always been there, faceless and pictureless, dark and speckled. She protects me, she never lies to me. She tells me over and over, “You’re not sick, you’re not sick.”

So I know I’m not.