Pushing. You are pushing your palms against the wall as though you could move it. As though your thin fingers serve as weapons against this claustrophobia. Anxiety has his hands wrapped around your neck; and when actually being choked, you become utterly stupid. Let me give an example, a man comes up from behind and grabs you tightly by the neck. You like to think you would go into badass-mode and flip him over your head onto the pavement, but when that man actually grabs you, that is not what you do. Instead, your lack of oxygen takes over. It is no longer about the man behind you, it is about you. Your hands flail to your neck and you keep trying to scream for air (a dumb idea in itself, for that would just be a waste of the air you have). Now, new perspective, there is no man there.
The thing about having an anxiety attack is that nothing is attacking you. There is no man for you to flip over your head nor sword to draw against. You are alone. That’s the most significant factor. No one is there in the basement with you. No one is watching you push against the wall and gasp for air. You are alone. Your only company is the soft pattering of drops of water from the unfinished ceiling to the cold concrete floor.  I mean, I can hear it, too, but you can’t see me, so that doesn’t really matter.
Here we go, here come the tears. There is a pattern in stages of grief. You just stepped a bit past the denial phase. Your arms go limp to your sides and you look at something between the floor and the wall. Something even I can’t see. Maybe no one can, maybe it’s not there. What are you looking for? Do you know where you are? I doubt you do, no one ever does here. Do you know how long you have been here? The answer to that is twenty-seven hours, but you have only been awake for three of them. You are one of the calmest who have arrived here.
You stop looking at the spot now. Your small hands curl into fists as you whip your head around. I swear you look right at me. I can feel your gaze punch me in the gut. But within a matter of seconds, you are looking around again.
Are you hungry? Is food what you want? Maybe so, you’re a thin little figure. Most of us are. It’s just his preference, I suppose. Oh, wait. I see, you want a weapon. You are looking up at the tubes in the ceiling. There’s nothing there for you, I have checked a thousand times over myself. I will you to look to the bookcase in the mustiest corner of the room. There’s a toolbox there, which would make this more interesting (oh, how sick of me to wish for entertainment in this situation). Go on, you can do it. There is hesitation in you; your hand pauses as you reach out to touch the spines of the book collection. I wish I could feel them. I long to run my fingers over the cracking spines just as your thin fingers do. Something catches your eye. Ah, you found it!
There is a metal clattering as you look through the old toolbox. You step back with a hammer clutched between those thin fingers of yours. You hold it first in your right hand, then your left, then right again. You throw a few practice swings to the air. I hear a familiar rattling from the vent by the stairs. Gas begins to leak into the room, but you don’t notice it until it starts to affect you. Your eyes feel so heavy, and your arms don’t want to support the hammer anymore.
So you lie down, back on the shabby blanket you arrived on. I wish you wouldn’t do that. I wish you wouldn’t close your eyes. You keep the hammer tucked beneath your side as you lie, back to the stairs. Goodnight, little girl. I hope your dreams are happier than your future.
?????
One click, two clicks, three clicks, four. Mister Murder is opening the door. Five, six, seven, and eight. Better wake up, before it’s too late. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Will you go to heaven, or be stuck here in hell?
Your eyes are moving behind their lids and I pray it is because you are awake. That you hear the heavy thudding of the boots against the staircase, and realize what is happening. Did you ever think you would end up like this? How did you imagine dying? I used to think I would drown. Pull a Virginia Woolf and walk into the river in my backyard with stones in my pockets. Mother had always warned me about the bad men in the world, but I had always viewed myself as the vilest being. There is nothing more truly sickening than fear of oneself. However, I was not my own downfall in the end. I guess Mother was right; Mister Murder was precisely her nightmare. You must wake up, surely you hear him. His feet are large and loud on the creaking boards. Hear him. Hear him. Hear him!
Your hand is moving now. You’re awake, but you keep your eyes closed in case he can see them. You move your hand slowly down your side until it finds the hammer. Once again, you wrap those pretty, thin fingers around the handle. He has stopped on the last step. I can see the familiar body clearly now. Sometimes he comes down still in his work outfit, but today, he does not bear the badge, and there is no “Jones” sewn into his shirt. However, he still dons the plain white t-shirt and wears his hair close cut.
He is just looking at you, tracing you with his eyes. How I long to rip those eyes out of his skull, to pull him apart. He is messing with you. He wants you to think he is gone. Don’t move. Don’t you dare move.
Can you feel his eyes burning into your back? Nothing is moving. The whole room is still and quiet and almost serene. He has something on his work belt. It always looks out of place when not backed with the dark blue of the police uniform. What is in it this time? A knife, I think. I can see the light hitting it from the top of the stairs. That’s a change; he’s been picking the baton lately.
It’s so quiet down here. Just the constant tip-tap of the water to the floor. I wish we could stay like this forever, little girl. Will you stay with me when he leaves? I hope you stay. It’s lonely here.
Your fingers are stark white against the hammer when he finally steps closer. Six feet away. Wait. Five feet away. Wait. Four feet away. Wait. Three feet awa- your body flings over and you ram the hammer into his calf. You were smart enough to not go for the feet, protected by the large boots. But you still hardly affect him through his jeans. Weak little girl, you are made of bones, not armor. His boot collides with your stomach. I want to look away. I want to look away. I can’t look away.
He is grabbing you by the shirt collar. He is a good foot and a half taller than you. Your feet dangle and your arms are limp at your sides. The hammer rests lightly in your right hand. You swing it again, and a crunch emits from his ribs. He doesn’t react to it. Oh, no. No no no. I can’t see this again. He’s doing it again. That ridiculously blissful smile. His face is beaming. He is happy. In this moment, he is happy, because he knows he has you. He gives you a shake and the hammer falls to the ground. With the push of his wrists, you are flung to the cement floor, your head colliding with a thud. Automatically, your hands go to it and you begin to curl up in a mixture of pain and fear. He picks up the hammer, never taking his eyes off you.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Mister Murder and I say it at the same time, but his husky voice is the only one you can hear. You shouldn’t have fought back. You should have stayed limp. Stayed weak, how he likes it. Most do, most see the blood thirst in his eyes and resign to him. He makes it quick if you do that. Now, you will get the pain you caused to him right back. He holds your hand in his, rubbing his thumb against it gently for a moment. Sometimes I think he feels bad for what he does. There is a flash of sympathy on his face, but it is quickly covered by that goofy grin. Your hand is against the floor now; his is wrapped around your wrist.
Your free hand is holding his arm, as though your weak hold will move him in the slightest. I watch as he gently unravels your pretty, thin fingers from a fist. The hammer hangs two feet above your fingers and you and I make the connection of what is about to happen at the same time. You do not make a sound until the crunch of your index finger echoes; it is merely a quick gasp. Crunch. The smile stays, but wavers between genuinely beaming and a faltering grin. Crunch. I watch in silence as the tears run down your face. Crunch. Crunch. Your right hand is useless now, all your fingers bent the wrong way; two of them are bleeding. You seem to have accepted your fate. The tears are there, but your eyes are strong, unwavering as you watch him. He does the other hand now, bringing the hammer down harder. The blood streams gently across the concrete, creating intricate, scarlet webs around your hands.
Mister Murder is frustrated now, you aren’t squirming or yelling or begging for mercy. You watch. That is supposed to be his job. I suppose maybe you are lucky you arrived on a bad day. Had it been a good one, he would have played with you for hours on end, waiting for the screams. Instead, he laughs and lifts up the hammer; in one swift motion, he throws it down and cracks your forehead like an egg on the concrete. You are dead immediately; I can see the fuzzy edges of your soul around your old body. Mister Murder stands, blood dripping from his chin and splattered on his teeth. He drops the hammer and walks up the steps. He’ll be back for your body later.
I can smell Death. He is never seen when He comes. But I can tell. He is far too familiar to me. I remember my death. My soul was still awake when He came, and I didn’t want to go. I fought against Him, and when He finally left, my soul was trapped here, unlike the other girls, who got to escape to someplace unknown to me. I had to watch as my body was tampered with and my life forgotten, all from the darkness of this basement. Mister Murder likes to keep tabs on all the girls he has killed, reading articles that are later shoved into the hollow books on the bookcase down here. I want you to stay. I want someone to stay. Please wake up. Please stay. It’s so quiet here. I want to go to heaven. Or hell. Anything is better than this solitary limbo.
I am alone, and Death is taking you with Him. Goodbye, little girl.