Isak Gunnar Cederström (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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muserevival2016-06-15 12:50 am
isak_cederstrom) wrote in muserevival2016-06-15 12:50 am
Entry tags:
122.7 | Quote
"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."
- Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
The images came in waves, as they are prone to do. The shattering of a glass, the raising of a voice, the shouting of words meant to devastate: each brought its own bit of information, the pieces coming together like a crudely cut puzzle.
Isak sat at a table on the sidewalk outside of a cafe, his heart suddenly racing and his forehead collecting sweat. His hands began to shake, fingers trembling, unable to maintain a steady grasp on anything they touched. His head vibrated, swirled, went too fast and too slow simultaneously. He recognized the early stages of a panic attack and, in a brief moment of lucidity, cursed himself for having it happen here - in public, with all these people around.
He tried his hardest to maintain a certain degree of politeness to the waitress who had begun to furrow her brow and ask if he was okay. He nodded, perhaps too eagerly, and managed to respond that he simply wasn't feeling well but lived nearby. He was going to go home. He fumbled for his wallet and tried to take out an appropriate amount of cash, but in his haste and in his anxiety, ended up dropping the money on the ground. The waitress, being kind and honest, caught them before the wind decided they belonged elsewhere and took only what was appropriate. He gave her an extra $40 simply for the trouble despite her protests.
He raced back to his apartment, needing to be within its silent and solitary walls to calm himself down.
After having difficulty with lining up key and hole, he managed to stumble through the door just as the dry heaves began. He fell to his knees in the foyer, trying to crawl away from the rug that his grandmother had received as a wedding gift, trying to catch his breath. Luckily, he kept whatever might have been in his stomach down - not that he could even recall what or if he had eaten that particular day. He was glad that he did not need to find out the hard way.
He flipped over onto his back, staring at the blankness of the ceiling.
'Breathe, Isak,' he coached himself. 'You have to remember to breathe.' He closed his eyes and began to count to 10, first on the inhale and then on the exhale. He tried to pinpoint the source of the attack as he felt his heart begin to steady itself. What had triggered him so deeply?
After what felt like hours of lying and breathing on the floor, it came to him: the sound of a waiter dropping and breaking a glass. He recalled the sounds and images of a father enraged, a father caught in the midst of a scandal that proved to be falsified, a father who took his anger out on the crystal glasses received for his wedding 33 years prior, a father who caused injury to his son as the shrapnel flew faster than the child could run. Isak reached up to his cheekbone, feeling the scar that had refused to fade completely over time. As the tears began to sting the backs of his eyes, he heard his phone begin to ring. He'd thrown it on the ground when he fell to his knees. A quick glance at the screen told him who was calling. 'His ears must have been ringing.'
Isak pressed the power button to force the call to voicemail.
He'd have to call his father back later.
Word Count | 588
- Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
The images came in waves, as they are prone to do. The shattering of a glass, the raising of a voice, the shouting of words meant to devastate: each brought its own bit of information, the pieces coming together like a crudely cut puzzle.
Isak sat at a table on the sidewalk outside of a cafe, his heart suddenly racing and his forehead collecting sweat. His hands began to shake, fingers trembling, unable to maintain a steady grasp on anything they touched. His head vibrated, swirled, went too fast and too slow simultaneously. He recognized the early stages of a panic attack and, in a brief moment of lucidity, cursed himself for having it happen here - in public, with all these people around.
He tried his hardest to maintain a certain degree of politeness to the waitress who had begun to furrow her brow and ask if he was okay. He nodded, perhaps too eagerly, and managed to respond that he simply wasn't feeling well but lived nearby. He was going to go home. He fumbled for his wallet and tried to take out an appropriate amount of cash, but in his haste and in his anxiety, ended up dropping the money on the ground. The waitress, being kind and honest, caught them before the wind decided they belonged elsewhere and took only what was appropriate. He gave her an extra $40 simply for the trouble despite her protests.
He raced back to his apartment, needing to be within its silent and solitary walls to calm himself down.
After having difficulty with lining up key and hole, he managed to stumble through the door just as the dry heaves began. He fell to his knees in the foyer, trying to crawl away from the rug that his grandmother had received as a wedding gift, trying to catch his breath. Luckily, he kept whatever might have been in his stomach down - not that he could even recall what or if he had eaten that particular day. He was glad that he did not need to find out the hard way.
He flipped over onto his back, staring at the blankness of the ceiling.
'Breathe, Isak,' he coached himself. 'You have to remember to breathe.' He closed his eyes and began to count to 10, first on the inhale and then on the exhale. He tried to pinpoint the source of the attack as he felt his heart begin to steady itself. What had triggered him so deeply?
After what felt like hours of lying and breathing on the floor, it came to him: the sound of a waiter dropping and breaking a glass. He recalled the sounds and images of a father enraged, a father caught in the midst of a scandal that proved to be falsified, a father who took his anger out on the crystal glasses received for his wedding 33 years prior, a father who caused injury to his son as the shrapnel flew faster than the child could run. Isak reached up to his cheekbone, feeling the scar that had refused to fade completely over time. As the tears began to sting the backs of his eyes, he heard his phone begin to ring. He'd thrown it on the ground when he fell to his knees. A quick glance at the screen told him who was calling. 'His ears must have been ringing.'
Isak pressed the power button to force the call to voicemail.
He'd have to call his father back later.
Word Count | 588