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The day before New Years Eve I went into the City. Finally, I thought.
At the first bus loop, it began. My day as an endless tirade of strange men latching onto me, telling me that "we have something special" and lashing me with race hatred. I don't think that strangers talk here. I don't think that my race is generally welcome in certain parts of town. People are surprised when I am friendly. Innocence and ignorance my shield and banner. Teach me so that I know to cry.
( the first scary man )
I had to make change at the train station so I went into a supermarket and was overwhelmed by women in desperate make-up and heavy walls of generic brand diet soda. It was full of bad light and busy with people, though the staff were kind, even through the quick weapon check. Back at the platform I was pressed by a man wearing a suit and tie to take a religious pamphlet. Aware or Awake, I couldn't see the full name. My plan was to find The Getty with maybe a stop by Necromance. He asked if he could take me there and I agreed. Company when traveling a strange transit system is a plus. I wasn't aware he had a car.
( the second man (this is where I'm almost kidnapped by a zealot) )
I was troubled when he drove past the stations, but relaxed into my usual wariness as we turned around toward Santa Monica. An end to the situation was at hand. I had to twist polite language to the breaking point to restrain him from following me as I stepped from the car. I had to refuse money. He caught me into a hug and called out, "Call me sometime! This is special, Jhayne! I can feel it!" while I quickly walked away. I darted into a shopping mall as soon as I could and wove through a department store, making certain that I wasn't pursued. I felt somehow hollow, realizing that I'm unused to being under attack for so many hours. One letting into the other, it was more than I'm used to.
( the third man )
I obviously don't understand some of the people here, but I'm sensing a theme. Not in all my time in Canada has my skin colour been pointed out as anything but poor protection from the sun. I don't like how my age was brought up as much as the fact that I'm female either. If anyone asks if I have a boyfriend, I should run far, far away. They will disturb me, ask me personal questions about marriage, spray me with racism, and then offer me money because I am obviously a white girl who needs protection from her innocent self. They are to be avoided at all cost.
I got sick that night. Hot fever which wracked me with chattering teeth and chills. Wrecked and ruined from a day of attack, I was hot like everything was carved from ice, cold to the touch. My skin hurt except once, my hands on a hallucinatory cat, large and black with green gold eyes. He purred for me. Blinked twice. Once I woke with a cracked throat, skin peeling from the inside like sun bleached wood, lying on a slick crimson bed, blood everywhere. It was dark and the sheets were throbbing skinned flesh. I could feel the heat of my body scorching the air, I could see etched clouds of burn. The silence killing me in a pool of black blazing liquid.
Death walked, pressure in my blood pouring from me in heat. Incalescence with no escape. Mirrors would burn before me, the silver crackling and the glass melting into charred amber blobs at the base of the bathroom counter.
The fever broke by mid-morning.
At the first bus loop, it began. My day as an endless tirade of strange men latching onto me, telling me that "we have something special" and lashing me with race hatred. I don't think that strangers talk here. I don't think that my race is generally welcome in certain parts of town. People are surprised when I am friendly. Innocence and ignorance my shield and banner. Teach me so that I know to cry.
( the first scary man )
I had to make change at the train station so I went into a supermarket and was overwhelmed by women in desperate make-up and heavy walls of generic brand diet soda. It was full of bad light and busy with people, though the staff were kind, even through the quick weapon check. Back at the platform I was pressed by a man wearing a suit and tie to take a religious pamphlet. Aware or Awake, I couldn't see the full name. My plan was to find The Getty with maybe a stop by Necromance. He asked if he could take me there and I agreed. Company when traveling a strange transit system is a plus. I wasn't aware he had a car.
( the second man (this is where I'm almost kidnapped by a zealot) )
I was troubled when he drove past the stations, but relaxed into my usual wariness as we turned around toward Santa Monica. An end to the situation was at hand. I had to twist polite language to the breaking point to restrain him from following me as I stepped from the car. I had to refuse money. He caught me into a hug and called out, "Call me sometime! This is special, Jhayne! I can feel it!" while I quickly walked away. I darted into a shopping mall as soon as I could and wove through a department store, making certain that I wasn't pursued. I felt somehow hollow, realizing that I'm unused to being under attack for so many hours. One letting into the other, it was more than I'm used to.
( the third man )
I obviously don't understand some of the people here, but I'm sensing a theme. Not in all my time in Canada has my skin colour been pointed out as anything but poor protection from the sun. I don't like how my age was brought up as much as the fact that I'm female either. If anyone asks if I have a boyfriend, I should run far, far away. They will disturb me, ask me personal questions about marriage, spray me with racism, and then offer me money because I am obviously a white girl who needs protection from her innocent self. They are to be avoided at all cost.
I got sick that night. Hot fever which wracked me with chattering teeth and chills. Wrecked and ruined from a day of attack, I was hot like everything was carved from ice, cold to the touch. My skin hurt except once, my hands on a hallucinatory cat, large and black with green gold eyes. He purred for me. Blinked twice. Once I woke with a cracked throat, skin peeling from the inside like sun bleached wood, lying on a slick crimson bed, blood everywhere. It was dark and the sheets were throbbing skinned flesh. I could feel the heat of my body scorching the air, I could see etched clouds of burn. The silence killing me in a pool of black blazing liquid.
Death walked, pressure in my blood pouring from me in heat. Incalescence with no escape. Mirrors would burn before me, the silver crackling and the glass melting into charred amber blobs at the base of the bathroom counter.
The fever broke by mid-morning.
