The Walker
I’m going for a walk. It’s 9pm, but because of daylight savings it’s still light—a wise man might even say “twilight.” But I’m not wise, and certainly not a man, and so I won’t. Despite it being December there’s a cold chill in the air, and I hug my jumper closer to my chest. My bare legs shiver as the breeze wraps around them, and I huddle into myself, my head slightly bent. It’s not exactly windy, but I feel as though I need to protect myself. Maybe the chilled air, or perhaps something more sinister, is the cause of the raised hairs at the back of my neck. The street is quiet, no one is about. A silent car drives past, the hum of its engine asking me to look over my shoulder. I stop and watch it as it turns down the next street, I listen to make sure it doesn’t stop. There’s no reason for my paranoid behaviour, it’s just the way I am when I’m alone.
Alone. Just the word suggests that I’m suffering from some broken heart; I can tell you that I’m not. I say it with indifference, I don’t believe I prefer either company or solitude, because it is all the same to me. Well, except for my paranoia—that only happens when I am alone. I’ve reached the end of the street and I’m faced with a decision. Do I turn back the way I came, or walk down the quiet alleyway? It’s only a short alley and it’s perfectly light, but I don’t have my mobile phone on me and even in its shortness it is intimidating enough to cause hesitation. I glance back the way I came and see an old man placing a rubbish bag in his bin. My decision is made, the idea of human interaction right now is enough for me to brave the alley. Wouldn’t it be tragic if I died here tonight? Just because I shied away from saying hello to a likely kind old man. This is not the best thing to think about as I enter the alley, and I hurry my step in consequence. Nothing changes as I walk and I half-smile at my relief that no mob decided to reveal itself to me, that no van appeared and suddenly screeched to a violent halt. It sounds stupid to say that that’s what I expected, but that’s paranoia I suppose; it does ‘over the top’ really well.
I’ve made it to the end, and I notice a slight increase in my breath, my body a little warmer. I’m still not safe though, even now out of reach from the alley my eyes dart across the street, to the windows of the houses behind me—hell, even up at the trees. I can’t help it, it’s my instinct. I’ve never been in the sort of trouble that would ignite these frantic responses when out alone, but I’ve heard enough stories. Warnings. I don’t even realise that I’m doing it most of the time, it’s just an encroaching feeling, overwhelming me with the urge to run. Sometimes I give in and I bolt. Just because it was too much, the adrenaline got the better of me, or a cat gave me a funny look, I would run, arms flailing, feet thudding, heart pumping. I can’t stop it, I can’t help that I was born a woman. That it is ingrained in me to fear all men unless I know them. No wonder I have trust issues. Half the population is a possible threat.
There are marches about this sort of stuff all the time, in the city and the suburbs, but I never go. I might click “going” on the Facebook pages, but that’s as far as I ever get. Maybe one day I’ll finally attend one. Then again, I probably won’t. What’s the point if it won’t change anything? Although I’m lying if I say that’s the reason I don’t go. Usually it’s because I forget, or I’m too lazy, occasionally I’m actually busy, but that’s rare in itself.
Cover Photo by Zeeshaan Shabbir. Edited by Caitlin Andrews.