The Crowds

Every day we hear how unique we are, how not a single one of us is like another. We are wonderul just the way we happened to be born. We don't need to be someone else. I don't need to be someone else...

So why is it still so hard to accept?

"Hey you."

I try to remember the last time I called you first. You don't seem to understand the strange fear I have of dialing someone's number. Of dialing your number. I have it memorized, but I rarely use it. It's sort of amusing, in a very unamusing way. But I called you three seconds ago, and now I'm analyzing your voice. Even though I don't need to.

"Hey," I say, my voice strangely unnatural to my own ears.

It's funny how I never plan out what I'm going to say to you when I call you. All my effort is put into pressing call after I type your number, slowly, so I have plently of time to change my mind. By the time I hear your voice, I'm scrambling to think of something to tell you. Why did I call? I don't know, I just had to talk to you...

"How are you today?" Your voice sounds natural. Do you practice that, or is it just part of the wonderfulness you possess?

I think I made up that word.

"I'm alright." Well, no, I'm not alright, because I wouldn't have called you if I were. When I'm alright, I wait until you call me, or sometimes I text you, or sometimes I'm happy and I lie on my stomach and draw pictures in my Notebook of Notebooks.

"What's wrong?"

I smile to myself. I wonder why it makes me feel better just to know you noticed when something is wrong. It wouldn't matter if I had cancer or a gun through my stomach, as long as I knew you cared.

Okay, that would still matter, but it wouldn't hurt as much.

"I'll tell you in a minute. How are you?"

"Worried about you, now."

Oh, I'm a selfish, horrible little brat.

"It's nothing huge. Don't worry about me. Are you busy?"

"Of course not."

I never know if you are really busy or not, because when I ask, you never are. At least you never say you are. But maybe you are today. Maybe you have three tests to study for and four big projects that are due tomorrow and so much homework that you probably shouldn't be talking on the phone right now and you probably should skip dinner so you have a better chance of finishing it...

"Jez?"

Oh.

"Jez, you okay?"

Yes. Yes. "I'm okay." I feel bad now for making you want to make sure I'm okay. "Are... are you busy tonight, for a few hours, maybe?"

I don't ask if you're free, I ask if you're busy. Silly.

"Of course."

"Okay."

"I'll meet you at Sammy's in 30 minutes, okay? Are you good with that?"

"Yes." 30 minutes is a long gap, and if I get there early I won't be okay, but you probably are busy before then.

"Hang in there, Jez." Your voice is smiling and I feel a little better.

"I love you."

Of course I go to Sammy's early. Sammy's used to be the place where my brother Sam worked, but then he moved to Oregon with his bride. We still call it Sammy's. It's a dorky little coffee shop and I don't even drink coffee, but you and I have always met there. And then we walk away from Sammy's and go somewhere where there are less people.

I don't like people.

Sammy's is crowded today, and I feel that familiar uncomfortable feeling pressing into my spine as I slide inside unnoticed. No one who works here knows me, and sometimes I like that and sometimes I don't. Today I need someone to usher me to a booth before I have some sort of fit.

I find a booth on my own and crouch on the seat, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, my shoulder pressed into the wall. I watch the table design and the reflections on it, refusing to look up and meet anyone's gaze. The unexplainable fear that someone will ask me what I want to order is a lump in my throat.

Sometimes I wish Sammy hadn't moved.

Every time the door opens, I want to turn to see if you're here yet. But no one comes to sit by me so I have to assume you haven't arrived...

"Jez."

I jump.

"Hey you."

You sit down next to me and look at me. "Are you alright?"

I nod.

"Come here." Your arm slides behind me, but I can't move. You look concerned for a moment, and then glance at my fingers gripping the sides of my legs as if I'll lose them if I let go. If there's pain, I haven't noticed.

"Do you want to leave, Jez?"

"I can't," I whisper. I have to keep looking at you; I can see people walking behind you, I can hear their voices buzzing into my mind. "I can't. Not yet."

"Relax, Jez. It's okay."

I concentrate on removing my arms from around my knees. You pull me closer and I close my eyes. I can hear them in the back of my mind, they're still talking, they never stop talking. And there's so many of them...

"Tell me when you want to go." Your voice buzzes against my hair.

A small child screams a few feet from me. I hear the mother's voice scolding the child gently, but it's too late. Every muscle in my body stiffens, and panic settles down into its psychotic system.

"Jez." Your hands are on my shoulders, holding me still. "Jez. It's alright."

"They want to kill me," I whisper.

"No one wants to kill you. Jez, look at me."

"They're going to kill me." I can't stop the shaking, and I can't open my eyes because I don't want to see a knife to my head.

"Jez!"

My face is wet and cold, and someone's pounding a hammer in the back of my mind. Your grip tightens but I can't feel you anymore, I can't hold my head up, someone must be shaking me because I can't hold still...

Someone picks me up and I let out a frightened scream. They can't take me away, I have to stay here, if I leave then they are going to kill you and I need you and I need you to be alive. Someone's talking in my ear but I can't hear them, I can't understand what they are saying to me, and I wish the earthquake in my body would stop because it's getting hard to breathe. I don't know where they're taking me, I don't want to die, I have to be with you because I need you, I love you, I love you...

"Jez."

Someone slaps me. My eyes fly open and there you are. You're holding me, we're out of Sammy's, we're gone, everyone's gone. My bloodless face flushes painfully and I hide against your chest.

"I'm sorry," I mumble. I must have been crying; my voice sounds like it.

"Relax, Jez, you're hurting me."

I realize I'm gripping your arm hard enough to strangle someone, and with effort I let go.

How many times has it been? I know it's getting worse. It used to be that it wouldn't happen when I was with you, until the crowds wanted to kill you too. Sometimes they want to kill me, sometimes they want to take me away and keep me from seeing you, sometimes they are all mass murderers and sometimes they kill babies. Now they want to kill you.

Your arms are still around me, and you're saying something in my ear but I can't hear it because I'm crying so hard.

"I want it to stop," I say, quietly, desperately.

"It's alright."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's alright. It's not your fault."

"I'm sorry..."

"Jez."

Your arms tighten and I stop talking.

"What happened this time?" You don't say it accusingly, just curiously. Sometimes I wonder how you can stand it, how you can stand me and my fits.

"They wanted to kill you," I whisper. "They were going to take me away and they had knives and they killed that little girl."

You don't ask me what little girl. "No, they didn't. They didn't kill anyone. You're still here, you're here with me and you're all right."

"I know."

We walk back to my house, and you keep your arm around me and the few people I see don't bother me. The panic goes away and I feel almost normal again, as normal as I've ever been. By the time we stop in front of my house, I can laugh.

I look up at you and you smile. It's so good to see you smile, you know.

"You be alright then?" you ask.

"I'm better."

"I love you."

"I'm sorry."

"I love you anyway."

I stand on my toes and kiss your cheek.

"Thank you."