After Harriet

Here in the Southeast, storms were frequent.

Thunderstorms—to be precise.

My family and I lived in the countryside, away from the city’s aching dissonance and drive. We lived in a small rural community, surrounded by miles of deserted fields and bright blue skies. Everyone knew your name, your age, your face…what you owned, what you thought, what you desired. I never knew how this information spread through the villagers. Like an infection, a viral disease, it traveled airborne—through the walls of your house, floating with the southern wind up until the walls of your neighbors’.

Speaking of my house. My house was built back in the tenement era—somewhere in the nineteenth century on the threshold of the Industrial Revolution. It was a farming house meant for several families, as well as livestock such as chickens and cows. Uncle Emmett even mentioned we had stables with horses before. But that was a long time ago. My house had classic, white wooden framing. The most prominent feature was our wide porch with a hanging bench, where grandma Hattie used to read. Its railings were always decorated with fresh, creamy-white magnolias, buzzing with bees.

Beyond the porch, each window had shutters the color of red-velvet cake. I remember it now—so vividly—it was Charlotte’s idea—my oldest sister’s. She and Adelaide—the second oldest—painted them together. That day, the three of us and my father traveled all day long into the nearest suburbs to buy the iconic, ruby-red paint. My aunt Virginia was always against it—said dark red brought unwanted spirits into the house—but my mother seemed to have helped her have a change of heart.

Our house had three floors and a basement. Every piece of wooden furniture—wardrobes, chairs, tables, nightstands… All those were built with blood and sweat. My father and my two eldest brothers—Calvin and Duke—would spend night and day restoring old Victorian furniture, which now stood lonesome and untouched. Our youngest—my then five year old brother Eddie, and cousins Caroline and Pearl—would run around the house bringing in all sorts of sticks and twigs, giving our house life and most importantly, love.

Our house would fill with all sorts of smells. From floral scents coming from our Magnolias to sweet aromas coming from my other grandma’s Mabel’s signature apple pie. As well as smell, it welcomed music. My other cousin Eleanor played the violin. I played the piano. “Mary Jane,” she would call after me, “come play with me for Hattie and Milo”—our black-furred border collie. In response to our music, our house danced in unison, whining and creaking. Although, I suppose it was probably ought to several people walking simultaneously on our aged floorboards.

We all lived together. Teamwork was what kept our household so tight-knit—what kept the heart of our home beating.

Oh, but how could I forget? We kept chickens—four of them, two cows—Betty and Molly, and a pig—which we simply called Pig.

As a large family, we were lucky enough to conserve and witness albums from the previous generations. The black and white pictures were all worn out and torn in some places. But me and Eleanor were always excited to lay on the rustic carpet in our living room and browse through the infinite pages. Running around the house, we would also find secret hiding spots under the floorboards or behind old paintings and pictures frames. But that’s a story for another time.

Back to thunderstorms. Thunderstorms were special.

As the heavy, dark gray clouds pooled in from all over the continent, I would run out from home, jump from the porch and skip through the slightly damp grass. Breathing in the fresh, humid air, I would let my nostrils fill with the smell of early rain and let the chilly, powerful wind smash against my face. I would look at the trees dancing in the distance, and mimic their movements throwing my arms in the air and spinning in the fields with the warmest of smiles. And then, somewhere behind me grandma Hattie’s calm voice would call after me: “Mary Jane, come inside.” and I would run back, eager to snuggle up in a blanket and witness Hell unleash upon Earth, being safe and sound inside my warmly-lit living room.

It’s now—standing on that same slightly damp grass in front of that same family home that I noticed no one will call after me. If I wished to stay through the storm—I could. If I wished to soak in rainwater and dance with the trees—I could. If I wished to run through the fields barefoot and as God brought me into this world—I could. Grandma Hattie wouldn’t call after me.

In fact, no one would.

We moved from here years ago, and I came to look through some of my old stuff to put this house for rent. My mother and father left with my youngest brother Eddie and our dog Milo to live in the city. They hated it so much, I recalled—the cramped studio apartment and the city’s clamor. But perhaps it was a sacrifice for Eddie. Calvin and Duke went off to college somewhere across the continent, as did my eldest sister Charlotte. Adelaide lived with her significant other.

Uncle Emmett and Aunt Virginia also left with their youngest kids—Caroline and Pearl—to live the city life, although somewhere distant and unknown to me. They also took grandma Mabel, but as far as I’m concerned she was put into a nursing home not too far from where they lived. Grandma Hattie… gone, but never forgotten. And where was Eleanor? I didn’t know.

As for the livestock—the chickens, Betty, Molly and Pig—sold.

As I stood in the open, charcoal clouds crowding above me and hard wind slicing my features, I wished for grandma Hattie to call after me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath—perhaps then, right when my lungs would be full of air, would grandma Hattie say my name and invite me home. But as I opened my eyes again—my long, chestnut hair ruffling in front of my eyes—all I heard was trees rustling in the distance. I felt her presence—standing on the porch, right in front of the porcelain white stairs. I felt her gaze. But as I slowly turned around, arms crossed at my chest, the porch was empty.

I walked towards the house.

This last week the news was flooded with the upcoming of some thunderstorm. I, personally, didn’t give much food for thought. After all, I lived in the capital of thunderstorms. I lived among wind and rain; among plump clouds and tornado alerts. Thunderstorms were familiar. Common. And yet the anticipation was slightly unnerving.

I entered the house and the wooden door smashed against the walls—the whole house shuddering at the impact. Subconsciously, I expected to feel the scent of grandma Mabel’s apple pie and be welcomed by the soft, glowing lights of the living room and kitchen. I expected to hear kids and adults running around; I expected our dog Milo to lick my fingers in greeting. Yet, when the gusts of wind smashed the front door behind me, all I felt was a musty scent of aged timber. The kitchen and living room were dark. My only source of lighting was a dull light bulb which hanged in the foyer, and blueish light coming in through the now stained-glass windows. The air inside was hollow. It wrapped around me in a chilly embrace.

I knew the thunderstorm was tonight. I’ll probably tell my parents it was a coincidence and a speck of bad luck. But deep down, I wanted to come here during a thunderstorm. I wanted to see the rain and feel the warm embrace of these walls. I wanted to run around and explore the house like I used to; I wanted to go through those infinite albums; I wanted to smell the now long withered magnolias.

I knew the thunderstorm was coming. And I knew it was inevitable.

But I also knew I wanted to face it—as unnerving as I have previously confessed it was.

I didn’t want to be alone. I never thought I’d feel like that in my home, but today, standing in the empty foyer of a three-story house, in complete solitude and deafening silence (although, the house was alive—creaking and whining somewhere in the distance), I felt truly alone—left behind.

So, I figured, I wouldn’t stay home.

I took my keys and spun on my heel, heading out of the building. I took off my shoes, and barefoot, strode onto the humid grass. I set off into the fields. No one would stop me—no voice, no person. I kept a steady pace, grass tickling my ankles and hair smashing yet again against my face. I glanced into the distance—somewhere there once stood our neighbors houses. Yet now, we were all alone. The village was all alone.

I halted.

Somewhere in the skies, a warning rumble shook the clouds. Now it was not a matter of will the storm hit the American southeast or not, but rather when will it hit. And I knew that, too. And still I waited for it.

The fog came in first. It came swiftly, suddenly. It crept in from behind, until it clouded my eyes and everything in front of them. The house was lost, somewhere in the countryside. The trees were masked by this strange presence, although their rustling still filled my ears. The grass under my feet was all that was visible. The fog clouded my thoughts, my memories. It seeped into my ears and enveloped my brain in confusion and perplexity. I no longer knew who I was nor what I was doing in the fields. I no longer breathed in fresh humid air, but dense odorless vapor that burned my nostrils and lungs. I no longer knew what was coming for me. I just was—a being with no name and no thoughts.

Until…

Until…

Thunder struck. In response, the earth rumbled beneath my feet. The fog slowly dissipated, and now I could see again. The trees fought against the ferocious wind, and I couldn’t help but wonder: will they break?

And for the first time, I thought, perhaps I shouldn’t face the storm. Perhaps it would break me. Perhaps I needed to go home—to my safe haven. Perhaps I needed to run.

Yes, to run.

I needed to run.

I turned on my heel. I started by walking, which turned into jogging, which turned into running, which turned into sprinting. But God—how slow was my running. As if I was in a lucid dream, no matter how much effort I put into it, I ran with such sloppiness, such slowness. I began to sweat. Cold sweat dripped on my hands and bare feet. The thunder struck behind me. The wind blew into my face, slowing me even further.

I made a mistake.

A mistake that would cost me my life.

I would never be again.

I would be blown away into the deserted fields, with no one but mother Nature knowing what had happened to me.

In the distance, I saw my house. Its poor walls were moving from side to side. Its front door and cherry-red window shutters fluttered like leaves. They shut and flew open again in rhythm with my heart.

Something deep inside my stomach knotted. It seized my body and started moving into my chest. It sat on my sternum, pushing down, until my stupid heart ran away in fear into my ears, and thumped there like a drum. I felt my pupils expand, my senses heighten. I knew I couldn’t fight the storm. Yet run—this I could do.

So I ran. There—the house was getting close. But I couldn’t feel my legs or my arms. I couldn’t feel my fingers or my tongue. My body was covered in microscopic needles, shackling my body in place. Something primal went down my spine. The house swayed in front of my eyes, moved in lazy waves. Dark pots flashed in front of me.

I knew then, that I was doomed. I knew the storm was going to get me.

That black matter that knotted my stomach and sat on my chest, suddenly fell to my feet, as if it were diving from a cliff—my heart skipped a beat. And in unison, thunder struck.

Any minute now.

Any second it would get me.

Any moment—

“Now.”

I sat at my desk.

“From now on you will have ninety minutes to complete the exam.”

I was surrounded by strangers.

My heart beat like a drum—like those bloody-red shutters. It skipped beats—like that thunder. My chest burned and my face flashed, and yet my skin was damp, chilly. I waited for the storm to grasp me.

“Best of luck.”

I looked around me. It seemed no one else was running. It seemed I was alone in that field.

My eyes watered. It will start raining soon—I realized.

My mind drowned in that fog yet again.

And all I could think about was when had this storm started.

When did it start to torment my home?

P.S. If you are struggling with anxiety, you are not alone.