Please Just Look Away

Sensitive topics: Mental Health & Identity

A soft morning glow bled through my living room curtains as I sat by the window, dragging my shoes on. They were cheap and old, evident in the fraying of the fabric at the sides. It was a beautiful place to be; the room was lit just enough to appear a shade of peach. This was how I liked it. But I needed to get out; it had been so long since I had last tried. Surely it had gotten better. No, surely I had gotten better.

On my way out, I pulled the door back to me tightly, leaning slightly to aid it with my weight. Glancing at my neighbour's window, seeing a shade of pink float past, I couldn't help but envy how easy this task must be for them; it showed my shoes weren't the only thing that needed replacing.

I'm ready to turn away to my first challenge, before I hear that terrifying sound: my name.

"Morning, dear," my neighbour asks, with specs of dirt covering her jumper and small gardening tools clumped together in her hands. "How are you getting on, good?"

I find the question strange; why answer it yourself?

"Going out to town, are you? It's been a while," she says.

I'm irritated by the prospect that she's keeping track.

"If you're going up there, you should drop into that meeting I was talking about. My wee nephew has been going in."

I don't want this conversation to go on any longer; I need to conserve myself for the bus. I feign interest.

"It's night and day, really. He's been doing so much better now that he's found his people," she says, while I stretch out an equally fake smile and walk away.

I think I responded to her, but I can't recall. Like all the others, I've learnt to forget them. I never want to, but my brain forces me, and I don't know if it's protection or torment.

I haven't ridden the bus in so long, but neither have I walked. This should be easier on my legs and, frankly, shoes. But it's busy, crowded, and the air is thick. Stepping on the bus, I raise my card to the reader, the driver giving me an almost indignant look as I do so - or is it aversion? It isn't something I want to think about, for right now I just need to think about finding a seat.

Within a sea of taken seats, the heads look down or outside. But a pair of heads turn to face me, constantly looking, like they're evaluating me. One of the pairs pushes their children to the other, and though that pair lets me walk past, it's the other that leans out towards me.

"Don't you sit near me, you hear?" The other says to me.

I never respond; I can't respond. I can only shrivel up into myself and move on to somewhere empty. But as I sit down, I now see more of those heads now turning to peer into me, their gaze kept steady despite the rattles of the bus. In their shared silence, they can all see it, as if it defines me

But then, noise. Though it's not my name, it never is; only whispers. I get off early; I must, as people part away from me slowly, staring, always staring. I could turn back home; it's not far, after all. But I've made up my mind. I can do this.

I stumble into a small shop, only now remembering the state of these damned shoes. I'm in agony, or well, perhaps that's an exaggeration. All I know is I shouldn't have walked this far after so long of being still. Thirst has struck me too; I'll get some water. I look upon the vast array of drinks I could choose from, but that's not going to help me; just plain old bottled water.

I take it over to the counter, waiting patiently for the man in front of me, counting his cash. At least someone's too busy to care about what I'm doing. When he eventually stepped aside, I took his place, placing a paper note down.

A blank stare, silence; the cashier gives me nothing in response for a long time. Until finally, he speaks.

"We don't accept cash," he says plainly.

I know this can't be true; that man just before did it. But why should I argue? It only causes more issues; I can't argue. An apology slips out of me, then a nod, before I use my card. The card reader, unlike the man standing behind it, thankfully does not argue with me, and it takes my money.

Picking up the water, the man once again makes noise at me as I leave the store. "Give it a few years," he says. "I won't have to deal with you lot for long."

I can't fight it, nor can I argue; I just have to keep moving.

Throwing away the crumpled mess of harsh plastic that was once my water, I eventually make it to where I always wanted to be: a café. A large open space, lots of people, and I can hide behind them all, finally.

As I approach the shining glass door, stickers plastered over the front, a pair of people jump back slightly at my sight. I don't want to hurt them, and they clearly don't want to hurt me; why can't we just live together on that basis? I offer them to go ahead; I even open the door, but they just pivot around and quickly glide away, making that noise to each other that I keep hearing: whispering, always whispering.

Once I'm in, things seem better, but not normal; never normal, and as I make my way to the counter, I can only let some of their eyes break away from their tables and into me. I just want them to stop looking; maybe if I don't look back, they might all move on.

I ask for something normal, but the woman behind the counter doesn't act like it. She keeps stumbling over words, looking around rapidly, breathing weirdly… she's scared of me. I don't want to hurt her; I just want coffee. I repeat what I asked for, or at least I think I did.

Free of another person's stare, I sit down. But the worst happens. I don't know why; maybe I pulled my chair back too loudly, and now everyone's looking at me. They've spotted me and realised what they think I am; they've spotted it. I'm far worse than someone being too loud; I'm different, maybe even dangerous. From all around, the sea of others stare at me.

Whispers, then insults, then shouts. I plead, I beg, and I scream because it's all I can do now, it's what they all expected, maybe even wanted. Please just look away.

But they have never left me alone before, and they won't now. I'm lost in my fury; all my thoughts are covered by thick clouds. I knock over the coffee, causing more reason for stares in my direction.

I leave a trail of cries behind me as I rush outside; I've done enough damage for today; I've had enough stares. Falling to the harsh concrete on the busy street, I finally look up to eyes not digging into me, not searching, just observing.

"Are you ok, love, do you need help?"

I can't remember what I say in response; all I can hear are my croaks and groans. But words came out; I know they did, because that woman is looking down at me with no more concern, just revulsion.

The woman leaned down, but the moment that thing on the pavement turned to face her and opened its mouth, her face curdled. To her, and to all the others, it was too far gone. Those pathetic words, the flimsy shoes, that pathetic life.

Nothing else could be done for that thing but leave it to rot.