Violet & Mr. Anx

“Ready?” Mom asked as she shut off the car.

I nodded in return, unbuckled my seatbelt, and opened my door. Grocery shopping may not seem like a great adventure, but I always enjoyed seeing the organized rows of products and creative end caps meticulously put together. I was sure this would be a quick trip to sustain us for the couple of days that separated us from a weekend, when the real shopping extravaganza occurred.

At the start of this adventure, mom and I had exchanged a short conversation about each of our days. Neither of us had anything worth mentioning happen. But as soon as we walked in, mom remembered she had forgotten to ask me something in the car, “Don’t you have a presentation at the end of this week?”

Before I could answer, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Mr. Anx, who wore his typical long black robe with almost a glisten woven into the fabric. I always wondered what his face looked like since I had never seen it. The hood, he wore, covered every feature. And since he never spoke, I also never knew what his voice sounded like. I released the shopping cart and left the store, following him. The movements were robotic and drenched in sap. The most memorable feature about Mr. Anx is his hand that always rests on my upper back, right between the shoulder blades. I can feel the warmth radiates. I try not to focus too much on it because then it feels hot, almost burning and unshakeable.

Outside of the store, we are walking into a narrow hallway with no light at the end.  It’s a walk I’ve done before with Mr. Anx. And while this hallway always feels familiar. I never want to be there. No movements are seen, no sounds heard, yet I keep jumping and looking around. It’s like watching a scary movie, waiting for the scary monster to appear. Your heart is in your ears. Your mouth dry. Your stomach turning. You are too afraid to look but even more scared to look away.

Today, I manage to quickly glance behind me. I see my mom and me exiting the store. My mom and me. I’m not sure how I am able to be in two places at once, but I also know that what I need to focus on is the hallway and the hand on my back. The feeling of dread. Of uncertainty. Of not knowing. My feet keep moving with the guidance of the hand on my back.

“You really nailed that presentation!” I’m in my history class. The quiet girl next to me just gave me a thumbs up as I am about to sit back down in my seat. Mr. Anx is nowhere to be seen. This is again familiar. I leave the hallway and return to my normal routine. No one around me asks where I have been or what I have been up to. Either they never missed me, or I was never missing. I have little recollection of anything except the hallway, the hand, the feelings.

A couple days go by uneventfully. It is now evening time and I am laying down on the couch. The TV is turned on, but my attention is primarily on my phone. Which isn’t saying much since I am mindlessly scrolling through each social media feeds, currently tik tok videos fill the screen. During a loading screen, I catch a news story moving across the bottom of the screen. Sinkhole appears on highway. Miles Wide. Cars and drivers impacted.

Mr. Anx appears next to the couch and spreads open his cloaked arms. I sit up and follow him out of the house; heat between my shoulder blades. I move past my dad in his recliner. Past my mom in the kitchen cutting up some watermelon. Neither of them stops us. No one says anything as I start down the hallway again.

I keep playing the newsreel in my head. Sinkhole. Could happen anywhere. Your house might be next. You could die in a sinkhole. Sinkholes happen anywhere. One just happened on the highway. You could be driving and end up in a sinkhole. You could be sleeping and end up in a sinkhole. Sinkholes happen anywhere.

Finally, I remember something I saw on Pinterest, you are spiraling. That seemed obvious. I wouldn’t be here with Mr. Anx if I wasn’t spiraling. I wouldn’t be in the hallway if I wasn’t spiraling. Stop yourself from spiraling. I know that I need to, but my feet won’t listen. My mind feels like a broken record: Sinkhole. Could happen anywhere. Your house might be next. You could die in a sinkhole. Sinkholes happen anywhere. One just happened on the highway. You could be driving and end up in a sink hole. You could be sleeping and end up in a sinkhole. Sinkholes happen anywhere.

I know that I need to get myself out of this hallway. I need to go back to the living room.

Close your eyes. What do you feel?

I start moving my hands and wiggle my fingers. Leather. Warm Leather. Soft.

I start moving my toes. Fleece. Heavy. Warm.

While taking a long, slow inhale, I move to the next sense: What do you hear?

Slow exhale. I focus on sounds happening around me. Someone Speaking. News Anchor. Mom chatting. Music. Light Music.

Another long inhale. Smell. Something Sweet.   

Exhale. Taste. Sweet. Juicy. Watermelon. Inhale. Exhale.

One final inhale 1, 2, 3 and exhale 1, 2, 3.

I finally opened my eyes. I am back on the couch, watching TV, eating watermelon. My dad is still on his recliner. My mom has taken her spot in the rocking chair. I looked around while finishing the pieces of watermelon in my mouth. No Mr. Anx in sight.

I know he will be back, and I know he will take me away. But next time, I won’t be gone long.