Writing!

       Jerry is paranoid. Oh, not foil hat, CIA in the WiFi crazy, but paranoid even so. In his home, at work, or with friends, the fears stay with him like a distasteful birthmark. At home watching a movie, he hears foot steps outside and a knock on the door and his heart pounds like he was dying suddenly or excessively living. A squad car while he's driving and he turns into a parking lot or onto a road, making a mental note over the heavy metal pounding in his chest to forever alter his route. A laughing couple next to him at a restaurant is a dagger stabbing into his brain, causing insecurities to pool up on the surface, threatening to drown the smile on his face.

        That smile, like a filthy pair of work boots polished to a sheen, he wears every day, to keep away the questions and judgments that only make the terror more real. He has no reason to be fearful, not really. He's a tax paying 40 hour citizen like any other, no warrants to warrant his fears, no feature or action so baffling to draw laughter from others. Even so, his heart strains against his chest day in day out to be free, pounding against the padded walls and bars of its cage like the room Jerry fears he belongs in. Why does he have these fears of there is nothing to be threatened by? Why is he constantly looking over his shoulders like prey caught out in the open? 

        Unless he is the cause of the fear, some base creature in his mind creating the reaction, terror in the rest of the mind. Is this fear any more grounded than the others? And how, how can you ignore your own mind? Always knocking in his head like a friendly neighbor or that damnable heart beat Always around the corner like the watchful officer, patrolling his own inner workings. Always at the table beside his waking mind, laughing at his failures and reminding him of his limitations. 

        The sudden blue lights as he drives home now set it off worse than ever, the aortic drumming audible over the officer's radio. The way he draws closer, light in hand and the other held warily on his holster, walking with those damnably loud boots that drive the diners inside crazy with their fresh gossip fodder. Then the rapping on the window, the damn knocking at the door that-- and suddenly, the pounding stops. The next table over is cleared, the caller in the hallway has gone away rebuffed, and the cop car continues on its route. Jerry's face is peaceful when the officer's light strikes it, closed eyes and a smile. No life in that smile, but the first true smile of his short life.