"The Edge Never Sleeps"

Welcome to my world of "tilting, swaying, spinning".

My contribution to this week’s writing prompt from the lovely Anomie @ Biera’s Bothy. Link below.

Anomie@Biera’sBothy

The Prompt

A hidden fear: imagine a fear you have isn’t just in your mind but has taken on a physical form, like a small, quiet creature that follows you around. Describe what it looks like and how it behaves. What would you say to it, if you could converse with it?

It rides with me,
in the car,
hands white on the wheel,
brakes trembling under my touch,
on bridges that stretch like razor blades over emptiness,
horns blaring behind me,
lights flashing,
and still it laughs - inside me, behind me,
licking at my confidence,
curling its tongue around my pulse.

It rides with me, like the wind-
on escalators, on elevators,
climbing stairs that slope too sharply,
glass floors that betray my feet,
balcony rails I cannot bear to touch.
It presses against my ribs,
whispers in my ear:
“See how small you are from here.
Do you dare?
Look down.
The air is empty.
You are fragile.”

I try to hide it from my friends.
It stands behind them, unseen,
laughing at my stammered steps,
my fingers curling around railings,
mocking me silently.
“See? She cannot climb.
Look at the fire escape she will not climb.
Scared twit.”

I remember the day at Blyde River Canyon,
my brother at the edge,
looking down into the abyss,
laughing, pointing.
The fear shoves me forward,
taunting,
“Go, look, see how far you would fall.”
I shake my head, nod politely,
but inside me, the stomach twists,
my lungs collapse,
my heart races like a trapped animal.
And it laughs,
and laughs,
echoing against the rocks, against my spine.

It eats with me,
chews with me,
turning meals into fear-feasts,
telling me of heights I could scale,
towers, ledges, vertigo leaps I cannot take.
It smells my terror,
breathes it,
fans it into a fire inside my chest.

It sleeps with me,
curling in my dreams,
turning staircases into infinite ladders,
fire escapes into twisting steel snakes,
glass floors cracking under weightless feet,
winds smelling of vertigo,
nightmares of edges, of free-fall,
of losing the floor beneath me.

It is relentless.
It bathes in me,
presses against me,
rides in my shadow,
sits next to me at cafés, in lifts, on buses.
It whispers and laughs:
“Do you dare?
You are small.
You are weak.
You cannot control me.”

I have tried to fight.
I have screamed in lifts,
shouted into the steel and glass,
“Shut up! You do not control me!”
And for a heartbeat, it faltered.
But it never leaves.
It never stops.
It waits at the edge,
laughing,
taunting,
breathing fear into the spaces I thought were mine.

And so I live with it,
daily, hourly,
my pulse in its grip,
my breath stolen,
my shadow trembling beside me,
still riding,
still laughing,
still asking,
“Do you dare?”

Absolutely true. My fear of Vertigo is beyond normal.