My heart sinks. My palms become sweaty. I want to run. I want to hide. I am usually so confident, but at this moment I need reassurance. Hell, I need a hug. In trepidation, I murmur a prayer. But even divine intervention has no room in a situation like this. I take deep breaths, urgently requiring myself to be calm. To STAY calm. I need my wits about me.
I begin to strategise in my mind, hoping that once I am done, there will be no casualties. Hoping that things will not be as bad as I predict. I try and shake off the doubts and fears that are clouding my mind, catalysing my instinctive panic. I grasp at any light that shines through the fog of worry. I am a warrior, I decide. Yes! I WILL survive. I WILL get through this. There will be no pain, no death, no destruction. I try and believe all this as I prepare for battle. I try and believe this even though the cold hand of fear squeezes my heart and instinct begs me not to. I straighten my poise, and begin walking slowly, resolutely, without looking back toward the field of battle.
I throw up one last silent prayer to the heavens, and enter... the kitchen.
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1953 Called. They'd Like Their Racists Back.
7 years ago
