Panic

Not all wounds are visible.

Panic

I am not one for name-calling, but I’ll tell you this: Panic is a cruel bastard.

Panic is a vicious and dirty street fighter. His attacks are physical, and he doesn’t follow any rules. He bites and claws, he’ll go for the eyes, the groin, the temple, and he’ll mercilessly exploit scars any chance he gets. Panic lays hands on his victims, and his grip is fierce. 

A shape-shifter, Panic skulks in the alleys we try to avoid. His visits are unsolicited. Though sometimes we know he’s on his way, we still can’t ward him off. Security is usually the first to know Panic is approaching.  She can taste his presence in the back of her throat; it’s an acridity that fuels waves of nausea she fights at Panic’s impending arrival. Security’s  hairline grows damp with perspiration when his shadow encroaches, and she often loses strength in her limbs. Poor Security cowers in Panic’s presence. Once she is taken down, her friends fall like dominoes. 

Hope is usually the next to succumb. Panic completely violates Hope’s personal space, and he crushes her bones with an uninvited handshake. She tries to withstand the pain and meet his gaze, but Panic just smirks because he knows how much he is  hurting her. He’ll leave red marks from his tentacles on Hope’s neck if he gets a chance.

Panic is a school-yard bully, and he handpicks his victims. He’ll catch Composure unaware on his way home, stick his foot out, and trip him. Poor Composure will land face-first on the concrete, completely disoriented. Panic’s menacing cackle will echo down the block. In winter, Panic makes his snowballs out of icy shards, and he pummels Joy until she can’t catch her breath. She shields her face and head with her willowy arms, but her defense is no match for Panic’s relentless ambush. He leaves Joy cold, wet, and shivering as she tries to make her way home. 

Like most bullies, Panic has a well-trained and devoted posse of toadies who flank his side.  Irrationality is Panic’s enforcer. He’s seated at Panic’s right hand, and his top priority is to assault Confidence; with a hard left uppercut, he leaves Confidence senseless.  Irrationality defiles Sanity and browbeats Reason until they both recoil into fetal position. Doubt, Insecurity, and Anxiety, a nasty set of sycophants,  snicker as they triple-team Common Sense. They shove her hard to the ground, leaving her lost in darkness, her palms and knees bloodied and covered in bits of gravel.

There’s no stopping Panic. He’s maniacal. He lingers, profoundly wearing out his welcome and casting his venomous malaise over all. We tap our fingers with impatience and glare with repugnance, but he never gets the hint. We simply have to wait until  he moves onto his next mark. Once Panic takes his leave, Hope is usually the first to peek out from the shadows. She helps us sift through the dark wreckage Panic has left in his wake. She tends to the wounded with a soft smile and kind hand. It’s Hope’s light that allows us to see again.