Anxieties

Your anxieties, when did they start? No prize for guessing: when I turned up. But they seemed to have a life of their own, didn’t they? Didn’t they creep into your life despite me, despite you, almost as if they were there before us, as if they had no regard for us? Nothing we did could stop them because we did nothing in unison. It was almost admirable how they crept up on you, wasn’t it, how they undermined you better than any enemy could have done: how they got to you before me. Or was it my arrival itself that brought them into being? From the most primitive fears – I can’t leave my room, not while there are still voices in the hall – to the delicate sensation of the marrow in your bones turning into cold metal rods, quivering ever so slightly.

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