4. Fight or Flight

4

Fight or Flight

 

One of my strongest memories from when I lived in France is of a walk home from a nearby shop. I think the reasons that this memory is so vivid and can still be recalled with great detail are twofold. The fear I felt and the unusual visual qualities of it Both combine to create a long lasting memory that I’m sure I’ll one day be able to tell my grandchildren about with the same sense of “oh my, it’s like it was yesterday”.

            The house I lived in was in an extremely rural location. Only a couple of houses were within walking distance and each were surrounded with vineyards and orchards. The shop I was walking home from was the only thing resembling a business that was less than a twenty-minute drive away. It was an out-building at the house of one of my neighbors where they sold antique plates and home made wooden ornaments. Less a shop and more a garage sale that was permanently open for business. It was a five minute walk from my house and so I visited regularly just for something to do and to test my improving French language skills on the couple that lived there.

          It was a beautiful summers day and the heat of the sun was being appeased by a gentle breeze. The path I took home was a fairly well trodden one that led straight through a vineyard. It had vines on either side that provided shade as well as a small snack whenever it took my fancy. In the Mediterranean summer heat my mouth would quickly become dry and each juicy grape I pilfered would burst in my mouth and give a satisfying sensation of momentary refreshment.  It’s a path I would take regularly in the daytime but I was often warned by locals never to walk through the vineyards at night. This was because there were a relatively large number of wild boars that lived in the area. Wild boar tend to be active either very early in the morning or very late at night and travelled primarily through the vineyards, so it was best to stay off these tracks if walking at those times of day. The locals would tell me that the boars were very strong, very quick and very aggressive. Each of them had horror stories in which someone they knew had been savagely mauled by a wild boar and left terribly injured by one of the vicious beasts. I took the stories with a pinch of salt; I’d heard the boars at night snorting and stomping through the vineyards but never seen one. They generally seemed to keep themselves to themselves. Just made up stories I thought. At the end of the day everyone needs a villain, bigger towns and cities have corporate businesses and politicians. This rural village had wild boars; people need something to blame when things go wrong.

            I was about half way along the path cutting through the vineyard when I was stopped dead in my tracks by a sight I can still see in my mind with photographic detail. The branches of the vines on either side of me created a kind of corridor and further down the corridor - just a few meters away and staring straight at me, stood a large black boar. The vibrance of the green leaves on the vines and the grass on the floor, highlighted by the bright sun and blue sky behind it made this black, colorless creature stand out from it’s surroundings and look incredibly surreal. I’d never seen a wild boar in the flesh before, let alone so close. Close enough I could hear its grunting, heaving breaths. It was a mass of muscle and despite only having small legs it seemed to be taller than I expected them to be. Covered in tufts of ugly black hair, its mouth was open and I could see it’s two lower fang-like teeth. Its eyes fixed on me, black and unforgiving.

             I was scared; the boar looked aggressive and fit the ‘baddy’ character from all the villager’s stories. The vines either side of me were heavily concentrated, meaning my only options were I could either turn back and run or face the boar. Man vs. pig.

             To this day it’s the most practical and obvious fight or flight experience I’ve ever had. A basic physiological reaction I’d read books about around a year prior. Fight or flight is a primal, instinctive thing that you have less control over than you might think. This was proven to me at this exact point in my life, as what I did next surprised me so much it was if I was watching myself from someone else’s perspective.  

           Instinctively I bent my knees slightly, raised both of my arms and showed my teeth in as menacing a way possible. I stared the boar deep into its eyes and screamed at it like a mad man. I stamped my feet and repeatedly yelled. No words as such just loud vowel noises and I did this for around thirty seconds " the most bizarre thirty seconds of my life. When I stopped, my heart was pounding. The boar didn’t even flinch; instead it just looked back at me. Clearly unfazed; it tilted its head slightly and just stared. I was sure it could smell the fear on me, I was panting and my heart was still racing. An expectation of the worst came over myself as though the boar was about to say “my turn” and then attack. Instead though, the boar merely grunted and turned his head away, before disappearing into a small gap in the vines. As if it was saying: “well, that was novel but I’m bored now. Cheerio”. I sighed with relief and briskly walked the rest of the journey home. Strangely proud of myself that I’d had an encounter with the villain of the village and come out unscathed. That my natural ‘fight or flight’ reaction when my instinct felt in danger was to fight and more importantly that my instinct made the correct call.

 

I lay staring at my phone ‘Incoming call " Work’. The realization I’ve just run out of work half way through a shift dawns on me, I clear my throat and sit up. I pick up my phone and answer “Hello”. “Where the hell are you?” It’s Steve and he sounds extremely angry, “One minute you’re putting the papers out, next minute I come out of my office and you’re gone.” I struggle to concentrate on what he’s saying, constantly distracted by the fresh memory of Izzy’s death. “Look, I’m really sorry” I find myself talking on autopilot. “I just came over really sick. Had to go throw up in the toilet” I’m speaking in a monotone, not selling the story well at all but I don’t care. “I shouted to the other guy on the till, err… Martin that I had to go home, maybe he didn’t hear me.” There’s a pause and the line is silent but for the faint sound of Steve’s blood boiling. He shouts at me and tells me not to bother coming in for a couple of days and that he’s docking my wages. I barely listen, tears form in my eyes again and it’s a relief when Steve slams the phone down on me. I throw my mobile aside and drag myself along the carpet to prop my back up against the flat door. I sit there like this for a while, my head whirring and eventually the sun goes down leaving me in darkness.

              I spend periods thinking about Paul, about how a human can be so inhumane. Such a monster, it worries me that he’s still out there and I wonder if the police will know he’s the killer and be able to find him and bring him to justice. I try not to, but my mind keeps turning to the night Izzy died. The things Paul may have done, what he might have done to those innocent girls before ending their lives?

             Eventually I stand up and head for the kitchen, my mind won’t give up so I decide to force it. I remember I have some cheap whiskey hidden under the sink and elect it do the job. As I enter the kitchen and switch the light on I’m momentarily blinded, having sat in darkness for a while my eyes had well adjusted. I squint at the clock and it’s 9.30pm. I’d started work over six hours ago and been sat on the floor of my hallway ever since. I bring out the bottle from under the sink and unscrew the top. Discard the lid by throwing it across the room and bring the bottle to my lips. It’s cheap whiskey, very cheap. Hitting the back of my throat it burns and sends a nasty sensation into my nose. The taste is far from enjoyable. I’m not drinking for enjoyment though, I’m drinking to numb my brain and blot out the endless barrage of horrifying images it thinks up. I’m trying to drown the day I’ve had so it’s never seen again. I swig a second time, it’s hideous and forces me to grimace and cough. Another gulp, bigger this time, entirely filling my mouth with the rotten stuff. I slump into my favorite chair and stare at the bottle, I muster the courage and down yet another swig.

                What I refer to, as my favorite chair is actually my only chair. The rest of the flat was furnished when I moved in but this chair was the only thing I really owned and I loved it, so it came with me. I had it facing a window that was sited high up and from the seated position I could only see the sky. Leaving me to imagine I could be sat anywhere in the world. I glug some more and before long, before I know it, my eyelids are heavy and I can feel myself slipping into a stupor.

                The world comes flooding into view again when I’m dragged back into consciousness by the sound of my doorbell. I groan and look at the clock; it’s one in the morning. The only person that would call round at this time is Dan. I stand up and nearly step on the now virtually empty whiskey bottle; stooping down to pick it up my head and vision go out of sync and I feel nauseous. I put the bottle on the kitchen table and walk into the hallway. Dan never called round without texting first, especially not at this time. My phone is still on the hallway floor and not wanting to bend down again so as to avoid nausea I use my foot to press the home button on the front. No new messages. Weird I think he must be pissed or something. The doorbell is still ringing incessantly. I open my flat door and head downstairs.

            Downstairs I can see a hooded figure through the frosted glass of the front door. This stops me for a second it’s not Dan. Dan never wears a hoody he despises them. The bell ringing has turned to a loud banging on the door since I’d turned the landing light on. “Yeah ok, one second” I shout. It must be some chav I think some idiot wanting to cause trouble. The whiskey in my veins and the day I’ve had find me hoping it is, hoping it is someone looking for trouble. An excuse for me to be aggressive and take these horrible feelings out on someone. I unlatch the door and take a deep breath in before opening.

            “Paul?” I choke as I say his name, my throat in shock that he’s stood at my door. He stands there staring at me, the monster. The man that killed Izzy. I can’t think what to do or say. He doesn’t say anything either just peers at me relentlessly.

            I’m reminded of my encounter with the boar. His eyes are black and unforgiving; I have the same mixture of fear and surprise that I had in that vineyard. Once again I decide to let instinct take over, my basic, primal ‘fight or flight’ instincts. And without really knowing what I’m doing or what I’m saying; I invite him in. I fight.  

 

Reviews

[AprilRN1210]

I like the way the flashback ties into the story, but I feel it may be too detailed and wordy.. otherwise once we got back to the "story" I became lost and engaged again... I love the way this chapter ended...

[Jennie Baron]

You are quite a talented storyteller. The flashback to the memory is a great juxtaposition to what is going on in the present. Well done.