Bathurst & Harbord

Out the front door. Down the Steps. Up the Street. Past cars and buses and people doing whatever people do. To the intersection, to the place where I must cross the street. Look both ways. Good. He's not around. This time I won't get hit. This time I won't be attacked. This time I won't be assaulted in my own neighbourhood, on my own street, in my own town. I thought it was safe here. I thought I could walk with a certain sense of security. I don't know what to think anymore. Mentally Ill. Maybe that was it. Screaming and shouting after a violent push, and I'm reeling back, and I'm shocked, and I don't know what to do. And I'm yelling, "What the fuck do you want?" And I'm backpedaling. And I'm still completely shocked, and I still don't know what to do. Unintelligible screams. A tug on my sleeve. "Let's GO!" she says. We run across the street. As we do so, he screams again, punches my shoulder, the blow glancing off. We're across the street. We're walking. Breathing. Alive. Safe again. Crisis averted, and yet I remain unsettled. Why? Why did he do that? Out of nowhere, the screaming, the violence. And I can't calm down. And she tries to. But my mind is racing, speeding towards an explanation that keeps hiding itself from me. But I'm convinced I'll make sense of it. I'll be able to nail it down, put it in a box, deal with it and move on. Rationalise it. Categorise it, Toss it Away. Let Nothing In.