Of fear, flashbacks and fire

***

Agoraphobia: The fear of being in situations where escape might be difficult or that help wouldn't be available if things go wrong.

As I walk down the hallway towards my apartment, I can feel that my breathing and heart rate are slowing down. I know the psychiatrist tells me to challenge my fear, yet I cannot wait to get back to my apartment. Home sweet home, home safe home too, I think. And as I pass my next door neighbour’s apartment, I begin to smile. Home stretch, I think, once again.

“How was your visit to the psy-chaiii-triist?” A female voice rings out.

It is my next door neighbour. Of course, who else can it be? I only talk to a single person in this entire apartment building-this next door neighbour. It is so obvious. 

“It was alright, I guess.” I turn back to face her. Her door is open and she is sitting at her dining table hunched up, reading glasses upon her face yet her eyes still squinting. I can see that she is poring over a thick book, and despite her many distracting wrinkles and grooves, her eyebrows are obviously furrowed. The accounts book. 

A pang of regret hits my heart. I should have stayed this morning and helped manage the accounts instead of going to see the psychiatrist. Yet once again, it was her who told me to see one. Not my fault, I argue back with myself. 

“I’ve got agoraphobia.” I say; she deserves to know. However, the minute it’s off my tongue, I want to retrieve it back. This phobia does not belong here; in a world that loves extroverts, in a world where connections and interdependence is valued. Although I know it is just like any other phobia, yet the idea the world conjectures is that those who have this specific phobia are shut-ins who never talk to anyone. 

A myth; a misconception of course. 

I can see her opening and closing her mouth repeatedly and the sound “A..aaa....aaaaaaa” floats towards me. I turn away and pace towards my apartment; almost dashing, I turn the knob and enter my dark living room then shut the door behind me. 

***

I liken my home to a cave. A safe cave that belongs to me, and me alone. A place that protects me from other humans and the world where so many things go wrong. Hence, it is the only place where I feel comfortable. 

I cannot remember whether the cave analogy came first, or my apartment interior design did. Regardless, my walls are in black or shades of grey. My furniture is dark brown and the sofa and bed sheets are dark purple. The theme is dark colours and shadows dance across the corners and floor. The ceiling lamps in each room are so dim that their combined light is feeble in comparison to the staggering amount of darkness in the flat. 

Yet, this is my home, where I feel safe, and at peace. 

You cannot see the insects that threaten every suburban apartment. You cannot see the imperfections of the paint job of the walls. You cannot see the dust and dirt that ultimately taints and uglifies the wall. It hides everything. And sometimes, ignorance is bliss. 

I first remove my jacket then dump both my bag and jacket down on the dark purple couch. With that, I collapse onto the soft seat. I retrieve my phone from my bag then begin to scroll through my Instagram feed. 

It is the anniversary of the day ABC bank collapsed. 

Bad choice, an extremely bad choice, I think as my heart sinks. I do not need to remember this day.

***

I had risen through the ranks, jostled my way up the corporate ladder then finally got my dream job: the chief trader of ABC bank. The pay was good, and the prestige and recognition that came with the role were just the tip of the iceberg. I had vowed to work hard, and expectedly, after just a month, I had earned a lot of money from the stock market. I had been using this equation, involving complicated mathematics that the “up-theres” did not understand. Hence, at the beginning, they were sceptical. However, as I had continued making so much money, they seemed to care less and less. They just turned one blind eye to my activity, which caused me to become more daring. I invested in greater and greater risk items, and began to “gamble” on the stock market. Yet, I kept winning big, and my self-confidence ballooned.

But since all good things have to come to an end, I began to lose money, and on three consecutive days, I lost all the profits I had made in the previous week. Within a month, I had incurred losses for the bank. By then, the “up-theres” knew, and they were after my neck.

I was fired promptly after that. Gone were the prestige, recognition and good salary. However, ABC bank still could not salvage its losses and hence, just 2 years ago on this day, the bank had collapsed. 

In came the disdainful looks, pointed words, and judgemental faces. After all, despite the simple name, ABC bank was the second oldest bank in the country. When the newspapers run the story and show your face as the cause of the fall, you become “infamous”, but not the "international mafia boss on the run" type of infamy; it is the “you screwed up big-time in the public eye” kind of infamy. 

I worked and lived in the city. In the city, there were hordes of people walking down the road, and most of them were attuned with the news. It was impossible to escape the faces and reactions they gave me. Hence, to avoid them, I stayed at home more and more often. I dashed out for groceries, avoided the peak hour, and climbed the stairs for fear of meeting people in the lift. I knew it was impossible to find another job now, so I hid at home, refusing to mix with the neighbours. Instead, I turned to staring out of the window. But alas, my ex-colleagues knew where I lived, so when they walked past, I could see them looking up at me. Hence I shut the curtains, blocking out their accusing stares. I turned to my computer, trying to do some online courses to change my career in the future. 

Yet after six months, the entire hooha had not died down. I further became a recluse, and left my house even less frequently. However, I did not feel comfortable in my own apartment. It had a light theme, the walls in pastels or white. White, as I have mentioned before, gets tainted with dirt. It reflected who I am, once an alright and successful person, yet now a broken one. 

Thus, I moved to my current apartment in the suburban region, in a town full of elderly. Hopefully, they would not know or think too much about the crash. Even better, some may have even forgotten about it!

***

I had gone over, explained the condition to Mrs Day, finished the accounts and now I am back in my own house, researching agoraphobia. She was not able to pronounce it, but she is undoubtedly proud that she had been the one to recommend me to see a psychiatrist. Suddenly, I smell the scent of cooking gas leaking from a stove. I peer out of the door, the neighbour opposite Mrs Day’s front door is open, and I hear the sound of pots and pans hitting one another, as if someone is trying to find the perfect pan to utilise out of a deluge of useless pots. 

Crash! Something seems to have dropped to the ground, a plate of some sort. Sounds of the rummage through the pans stop, and are replaced by the sounds of sweeping. The smell of the flammable cooking gas intensifies. She must have forgotten to turn off the gas again, I think. 

I roll my eyes; this happens so often. I have no idea why it happens, but I have just accepted it.

Yet, something tells me that this is different from the previous occurrences. As if something is going to go wrong at the end of all this. But the corridors are empty, most of the doors are shut; and the only sound on the level comes from that neighbour's apartment. It is a typical day, yet I can feel that something is off.

I go back into my house and continue searching up treating agoraphobia while trying to suppress feelings of doom. “Stay where you are”, “focus”, “breathe slowly and deeply”, “challenge your fear” the website states. I read the examples on how to do so as I note them down. We will try that everyday, shall we? I think to myself, determined to reduce my symptoms and overcome my fear. Perhaps I will aim to get a job that isn’t by the charity of Mrs Day, I think; and I set “next year” as the date to complete this goal by. 

The smell of smoke is getting stronger. I open my front door again, and my nostrils are assaulted by the acrid scent. Every second, more and more smoke floats out of that neighbour's front door, making me unable to see past Mrs Day’s front door. Smoke is less dense than air, hence it collects just below the corridor lights, like a dusty veil covering the already dim lights. 

My eyes are hurting and I’m about to cough violently. “Turn off the flame now!” I yell across the corridor, smoke filling my throat. I cough and gag, but there seems to be no reaction from that neighbour’s house. Fanning the smoke away from me, I look around. A shadow in the emergency stairways, I squint through the small screen window on the emergency exit door. 

“I will do it, just give me a minute. Thank you.” A very small sound reaches my ear from that direction. She is answering a call now, I think, shaking my head. 

KABOOM! I cover my eardrums for a moment, but I can already hear my ears ringing. As I turn towards the direction of the sound, my heart palpitating, I see bright red flames extending out of that neighbour's front door. My breaths come in ragged gasps as I steady myself against my front door to prevent myself from keeling over in shock. Even more smoke rises up towards the ceiling, covering it in a continuous patch of grey. The fire, like tentacles, pulses, each time moving further and further into the corridor. The hot fire dances in an evil, angry way, as if it wants to burn as many people up in its ruthless flames. Then the fire alarm finally rings. I hear doors opening and frantic voices. Soon, the emergency stairways are filled with people running down the stairs, their feet pounding on the concrete. 

Upon seeing the crowd, I began to sweat profusely. The heat from the fire is getting stronger, but the crowds on the stairs also make me afraid. My heart is beating faster than ever and I am trembling from head to toe. What if there is a stampede? What if the stairs collapse on us? What if …? A million thoughts enter my mind, swamping it with endless possibilities that could happen and cause me to die or be embarrassed. 

But to save myself to live another day, you have to escape, I think, as I force my reluctant legs towards the emergency exit, where the crowd is fortunately thinning out. 

The fire had been advancing in the other direction away from my apartment, but now it begins to move towards my apartment. I quickly push open the emergency exit door. 

There is a last straggler coming down from the higher levels, and when he sees me, he gives me the strange look, as if he has not seen me before. As he continues climbing down, I momentarily freeze, do I look weird or something? 

I begin to climb down the stairs as fast as him, but my lack of exercise from staying at home all day is not helping. Bam! The fire burst through the emergency exit door, smoke filling the stairways. The fire descends towards me, and my eyes widen. Fueled by adrenaline, I run down faster than I ever could, coughing and gagging and tearing from the irritation from the smoke. The stairs seem endless, a sea of grey; the fire like a roaring beast behind me, about to devour me in a minute. The heat scorches my back, and my lungs and legs are aching. I am stumbling down the stairs, and I cannot even hold the handrail. I won't make it, I think, yet I am still pushing on. 

Finally, I see an open door. Summoning all my energy, I dash towards it. I see the crowd in front of the building, and nearly freeze again. Panic attack, my brain sings to me. You do not want to be in the crowd when you have a panic attack. 

But to live, I have to get out, away from the building harboring the fire. I push on towards the crowd. 

“Are you alright?” A voice rings out as I crash into somebody. 

I am about to apologise and get out of the way while simultaneously berating myself about making a mistake, when I realise that it is Mrs Day. 

I take a huge sigh of relief and nod. As I survey the others, I notice that some are crying, some are on their phones calling frantically, and some are trying to help others. Nobody is looking at me, nobody is staring, judging me. 

Looking at the building, I notice red flames licking the windows of just about every floor. The building creaks, as parts of the roof fall down, burnt. 

Then, suddenly, the whole building collapses in a heap, fire, with its tendrils, shooting out of the windows and cracks. 

The sun shines down on the crowd. And for once, I see the bright blue sky that is now more expansive than before. As sunlight streams down abundantly on the ground, I no longer feel afraid, and my heart finally feels warm. 

I am one step closer to overcoming my fear.