Run for your life if you can, little girl

[cyrano]

I have an overactive imagination. This will not surprise any of you, nor will you think that's terribly uncommon. My imagination, however, is a Russian Jew. If you're later than expected and I can't ring you on your mobile, odds are good that within fifteen minutes I've already processed the horrific auto crash and the emotional impact on all of us who know you, and the back of my brain is chugging along thinking about what songs would be good to play at your wake, and if there's anything I loaned you that I need to get back before the inheritance vultures descend.

My imagination also takes a distinct dislike to certain places. The basement of our home on ninth street, for instance, had a half-finished basement. Both the crawlspace and the storage area under the stairs inspired amazing dread. While trying desperately not to run up the stairs with all the speed I could muster (which worked about half the time), I was vividly imagining roots or tendrils snaking up, grabbing my ankles. I could feel the crunch as my face hit the stairs and my nose broke, which would at least briefly distract me from what came next.

Here in Orion, it's the pool room, but only after sundown. After dark, I don't even want to walk on the patio past the sliding glass door leading in. Especially if the door is cracked. The closer I am, the more uncomfortable I get. And I certainly don't want to turn my back on the pool to try and grab a soda before the dark shape heaves itself to the surface and reaches for me. Sometimes it's a horrific tentacled creature. Sometimes it's just a bloated water logged corpse. Or several of them. Regardless of which it is, the result is still the same--overpowering, dragging, and drowning. The burn of chlorine in my nostrils, the creep of my flesh just before the first drop of water falls on my skin, the unexplained noise, each precursor to certain death pushes me further into reptile brain panic no matter how hard the frontal lobes try to keep the party from getting out of hand.

The ironic thing is, one of these days I'm going to hurt myself from trying to move too quickly. I'll slip on the wet concrete, or I'll jam my wrist as I try to speed twist the doorknob.

And then, when I'm momentarily vulnerable, they'll grab me and drag me under. FML.

Comments

[amanda_lodden.livejournal.com]

Uh. Yeah. Do me a favor, then, and let me know when you're heading into the pool room after dark. That way, when you don't come back in a reasonable timeframe, I can go check on you and make sure you haven't fallen and cracked your head on the concrete.

Is it still scary when the light is on? Because you can turn the light on, even when it's really late at night and you're worried about waking people up (you probably won't, and if you do, it's a lesson in buying heavier curtains for them.) The switch is one of the ones in the set of three in the hallway, not the one closest to the door we always use. (If you're curious, it's because that wasn't always a door, but the one by the basement stairs has always been there.)

Alternatively, you could move the soda. It's only out there because it was convenient for the party.

[cyranocyrano.livejournal.com]

It is better when the living room light is on, because then there's no gaping black square yawning when I look in that direction. And I have tried a couple of times not turning on the pool room light, but I usually failed.

And the soda is out there because that way it's cold, rather than lukewarm. At least for a little while longer.

[amanda_lodden.livejournal.com]

There's this big white box in the kitchen that could just as easily keep the soda cold. You'd have to manage the can levels, because I can't be arsed to do it (that's the main reason why I drink my soda lukewarm; it's laziness rather than preference.)

[cyranocyrano.livejournal.com]

I assumed part of it was the fact that it was often full of food.
I will have to investigate this big white box.