65 Roses and a Trunki

Self and Others

I can't breathe … I can't breathe … I can't breathe …

I repeat the words over and over in my head.

I wander down the corridor carrying Terrance under my arm, doing my best to look as normal as I can. A man passes me. He smiles. I think he's looking at me strangely but I'm probably imagining it. When he's gone and I'm sure no-one can see me, I press my hands against my chest. My heart's pounding. I feel sweat dripping through my shirt. A woman carrying a coffee smiles at me. I smile back, doing my best to look normal.

Except I'm crazy with pain.

I need a place to hide.

I try a meeting room door. It opens. I stagger in. I feel so weak and Terrance almost drops to the floor. Half a dozen suited heads turn towards a grown man with a toy under his arm and they are unsure whether to call for a priest, a doctor or security.

– Sorry … wrong room …

I must look like I've been on a month-long rave and taken a Trunki load of ecstasy.

There's a picture of stick man on a door at the end of the corridor. A toilet. I stagger through the door, find a cubicle, lock it behind me, close the lid and slump forwards.

I slither to the tiled floor and try to breathe. My whole body feels like it's being gripped by a fist.

– I'm not going to die in a toilet …

My words bounce around the cubicle, hurtling back to me like a dark boomerang.

The pain comes in waves like a raging sea, rising from my diaphragm, pounding my lungs and pressing on my chest like a concrete block.

I writhe on the ...