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My family arrives at the movie and files down the row towards our seats before the previews even start. They’ve dragged me to the newest Thor movie, despite my protests. We could wait until it comes out on Netflix instead of spending our afternoon in a dark theater, but apparently my family enjoys the way the fabric of the seats scratches up their thighs. “Davis, can I sit in the middle?” my sister asks almost sarcastically. She’s currently right on the edge next to a group of older boys who are playing on their phones and slurping diet coke. “Nope.” I grip my blue raspberry slurpee tighter. “Why not? You always get to be next to Mom.” She raises her eyebrows knowingly. “I want to sit by Mom.” The condensation on the slurpee cup makes my hands chilly. She refuses to back down. “But I think it’s only fair if I sit by Mom this time.” “No Elliot. I want to be by Mom.” My fingers are growing numb. She leans forwards an inch. “You just don’t want to sit next to a stranger.” “That’s not true.” I sneak a sideways glance at the boys. Their legs are so big and hairy, they take up most of the space in front of them. Sitting next to them would mean I couldn’t get out of the row of chairs quickly. “I can sit next to strangers, I just sat here first and I don’t want to move.” My voice is firm and confident, but I doubt that matters to Elliot; she knows me too well. The lights dim slightly as the screen turns on. Each individual crunch or slurp or whisper around me fills my head like a cloud of laughing gas. My hand pushes my glasses up and leaves a trail of cold water down the bridge of my nose. I take one numb finger and wipe a streak of water off of my cup. A man behind me coughs. Suddenly I can’t feel the cold dampness on my finger. He coughs again, more desperately this time. My legs lose contact with the leather of the seat, but I’m still sitting down. My clothes aren’t touching my skin anymore. I can see the hollow shell of my figure around me, but I am no longer inside. The hacking coughs continue. My mind, which is standing a reasonable distance away from me, extends a cold rod and pokes my stomach. Hey Davis, he might throw up. I know it’s not true, but my anxious subconsciousness has already anchored itself to my gut. One quick tug creates the illusion of bile in my throat. He might throw up and you’d have to hear it. You better get out right now. My head turns frantically to my mom. “I need to go to the bathroom.” My dad, having overheard, leans forward. He wants to laugh. “Calm down.” “I don’t need to calm down!” I say to him, but we both know that what I mean is “I can’t calm down!” The guy behind me is coughing and it is probably nothing but my skittish body hasn’t figured that out yet and I need to get out of here right now but I can’t because there are so many people all around me and they’re trapping me with their big long legs and their purses on the ground and I could just ask them to move but I can’t because they wouldn’t hear me over their mindless conversations and the slurping of the icees and crunching of the popcorn and all the other pointless noise in this pointless, crowded theater. My breath hitches. The coughing has stopped. The man behind me is perfectly fine. Apparently he was unaware that he can fit more popcorn in his grubby fingers than down his throat. His choking has ceased, but the panic it inspired in my stomach remains. I am acutely aware of the overwhelming amount of people around me, and it feels like a rock on my chest. I need an escape. The emergency exits glow green behind my chair. Green for go. Green for get out of here. Green for your family was right to laugh because you’re scared and you need to leave right now. “In case of an emergency, please proceed to the nearest emergency exit,” they always warn. I never knew my hands could be so numb yet so sweaty. My throat feels tight. This definitely constitutes an emergency.
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Davis Mathis is a 17-year-old from Georgia. She enjoys writing in her free time and especially loves writing poetry and personal essays about feminism and her experiences as a bisexual woman. Her work has been featured in Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing and she is scheduled to be published in both apt magazine and Sheila-Na-Gig online as well. |
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