Content Warnings: unreality, getting lost, sleeplessness, panic attacks, dissociation
Single Narrator: Any Gender
I’ve lived in this apartment complex for a while now. Six years, actually. My landlord mentions it every now and then- I think he’s bitter about the fact that my rent is secured at the current price, and he’s definitely jacked it up by now. But a contract is a contract, and I like where I live.
Living here as long as I have means watching neighbors come and go. A lot of my neighbors are college students- my apartment is fairly close to campus, just far enough away to be reasonable, but close enough that students can bike or take the bus pretty effectively. It’s something I’m used to- meeting a couple of new students each year and losing a couple- whether because they’re finished with school or they’ve found somewhere else to live.
I wouldn’t say I’m close to any of them, but I know most of their names, and a couple of them have graciously knocked on my door to let me know they were having a party. One pair of students that lived next door actually invited me to every party they had- I think they were worried I would call the landlord about the noise, or something. It was kind of sweet- and more than a little amusing.
Every few months is move-in or move-out season, so I was expecting a few new faces to show up. I do my best to try and say hello to new people I see in the hallway- just to test the waters. Some people don’t like knowing their neighbors, and that’s fine. It just helps my anxiety to know when there’s a true stranger in the hallway, versus just my neighbor down the hall who doesn’t get out much.
One of the new faces is a young woman named Laura. I never caught her last name- it seems rude to ask that when you’re just saying hello and carrying a bag of groceries. She’s very sociable- asked if I wanted to come in for coffee, but that's a little difficult when you have yoghurt to put away. So I asked for a rain check and carried along with my day.
I assumed I’d see her around more often- people that excited to know me generally spend a lot of time chatting up the neighbors, or having people over. But I didn’t see her very often after that. Our paths crossed in the hall a couple more times, and each time one or the other of us had something to run off to- never did manage to catch that cup of coffee.
She did make a point to tell me that her door was always open, if I needed it. Very sweet of her- I’m not nearly bold enough to come over unannounced like that, without plans, but it was sweet of her to offer all the same.
Most of the things I’ve learnt about Laura, I’ve learnt because of her painting.
Apparently she’s some sort of local celebrity artist. Not ‘see my paintings in the MOMA’ level of celebrity, but ‘runs an art gallery and sells her paintings for more than I make in a couple of months, minimum’ famous. She always invites everyone on the floor whenever she has a new exhibit going- slips free tickets under the doors. If I got out more, or had someone I knew to go with, I think it would be fun to go sometime.
As it is, though, I’ve just been saving the postcards. They make good decorations- always prints of her key pieces, or something. And really- she is a good painter. Abstract, so I don’t always necessarily… see what the painting is? But it’s fun to look at.
Her last exhibition was a big hit- at least from what I’ve heard. Didn’t get the chance to go. But a couple of the guys that live two doors down went and asked me if I was going to. When I said I wouldn’t be able to, they told me about how interesting it was. Some sort of new direction her art was going- I guess they’d been to a couple of her prior shows. One of them said something about Laura finding her ‘Blue Period’, but I think he just wanted to toss art words around.
I thought about maybe stopping by after work sometime, if I could get the energy and the nerve together. But it was so far away from the office, and I’d be going alone, and I wouldn’t know if anyone was there or if I’d be interrupting- so I never got around to it.
But I didn’t have to- not to see one of the paintings, at least.
I crossed paths with Laura again last week- she was out in the hallway, hanging a painting. The back wall of our hall has always been bare- it’s not like we have wall decor in our little apartment complex. But apparently this piece didn’t sell at her exhibition, and she got permission from the landlord to hang it in the hallway.
It certainly livened up the place, I suppose.
Maybe it was the difference between seeing one of her pieces in person versus sized down onto a postcard for advertising, or maybe the direction Laura was taking with her art was one I wasn’t knowledgeable enough to understand, but it almost made my head hurt to look at the painting.
She asked me to take a step back and make sure it was hung evenly- nothing worse than a crooked painting. So I did, and I stared into the canvas, trying to check the level. But I must have spaced out- lost track of time. It happens sometimes- not usually when I’m out around other people, but sometimes.
I just kept staring into the painting. There were so many lines and corners and edges. Like stairs. Or hallways. Or doors. Or walls. Like a maze my eyes could follow, but never quite solve. Every time I felt like I was getting somewhere, I’d hit another dead end. But I couldn’t just give up and look away- I felt like I needed to finish the maze, to find the way out.
I’m used to anxiety attacks- I know what they feel like, and I’ve spent decades working on managing them, or at least knowing when they’re happening. But this one came out of nowhere. One moment I was staring at the painting, and the next I felt like I was inside it.
Like every single line on the canvas was a physical barrier in my way, holding onto me, keeping me in place, trapping me in the hallway, in front of the painting, in my own body. Unable to move, unable to think, unable to breathe.
At some point, I must have started crying. At some point, I must have ended up on the ground. At some point, Laura must have gone to get help.
I didn’t remember any of those points. All I could see was the lines. The staircases. The hallways I was trying so desperately to escape. The doors I couldn’t quite touch, couldn’t quite open, despite how much I wanted to- no, needed to open them.
I do remember a blanket around my shoulders, a hand reaching out to brush my hair back from my face, flinching away and being slowly led back to my apartment. It felt like a physical ripping in my brain- a headache worse than any I had ever had before, to stop looking at the painting. My eyes followed it until I couldn’t turn my head to see it anymore, and then the pain rushed over me, so overwhelming that I stumbled, and had to be helped the rest of the way to my couch.
I wrote it off as a particularly bad anxiety attack. I hadn’t had one like that in years, but it wasn’t unheard of for me to get stuck like that. I wanted to apologise to Laura- I didn’t want her thinking it was her or her art I was afraid of. But I didn’t want to see that painting again. And I knew it was at the end of the hall. Waiting. Wanting. Calling.
I could hear it. Or feel it. Or something. I couldn’t tell you what sense it was- but I knew it was there. And I knew it wanted me to come back into that maze. And it was so hard not to.
I let my boss know I’d had a bad attack and would need the next couple of days off- they’re fairly understanding, and I’ve worked there almost as long as I’ve lived in this city, so they didn’t mind. A long weekend- something to clear my head before I got back to work on our marketing campaign.
Four days to sit, safe, in my own apartment. And not go out into that hallway. And not see that painting.
There was something relieving about that thought in and of itself, and the worst of the lingering panic began to fade. I drew myself a bath and got ready for an early night- sure that I could sleep off some more, and by tomorrow I’d probably feel stable enough to go over and check on Laura.
But I couldn’t turn in early. I couldn’t turn in at all.
It normally takes me a while to fall asleep- to quiet my thoughts and work through my day and finally be drained enough to drift off. I’ve worked the time down to a little under an hour, but at the worst, it could be three or four.
And this was worse than that.
No matter what I did, what I tried to think of, what I tried to work through, all I could see was that maze. The halls and staircases slid across my eyelids when I closed my eyes, and when I opened them and looked around, the lines and curves and edges played at the corners of my vision, just out of reach.
I turned on one of my soothing soundtracks and tried to read a chapter of the book I’m working on- but I couldn’t see the words on the page. The letters kept twisting and turning and forming themselves into corridors, mazes, endless paths. Paths I traced with my eyes, turning in circles and going nowhere until I managed to wrench the book closed, gasping for breath, heart pounding.
No sleep- that much was certain. I was too wound up. Too anxious.
I can’t sleep. Every time I try, the hallways are right there, waiting to swallow me up. And when I open my eyes again, they’re closer, threatening to catch me even when I’m waking. I’m so tired- beyond tired. Exhausted. But I cannot sleep. No matter what I try, it will not let me sleep.
I can’t sleep in the maze.
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