Dis[tress]patches

The uncertainty of it all is the most stressful part.

You could be in the clutches of a deep, comfortable sleep when the terrifying shrieks yank you right back. The screaming is soon accompanied by wailing and for a brief, dizzying moment you wonder if perhaps you haven't awoke at all. Perhaps you have been thrust into a nightmare; except somewhere in your consciousness you recognize this brand of chaos. You try to ignore it at first, try to shut your eyes and even put a pillow over your head. This pathetic attempt at disassociation only makes the swelling combination of foolish curiosity and illogical guilt grow larger. Soon they have taken full control of your body--you are up and reaching for the controls on the tower fan, switching off the liberating gusts of cool air and sonic relief. Now you can make out the ramble more clearly. Curse words are hurled in a  staccato, rapid-fire assault at no target in particular. You swallow back a clod of misplaced guilt, the kind that witnesses to traumatic events and survivors are left with, despite knowing they could have done nothing to alter destiny. You know better than to step into the line of fire. Besides, all desire to perform the noble sacrificial lamb role have evaporated over time and have been replaced by a collective resentment. There's nothing you can do but save yourself, you try to repeat to your distracted mind. The booming thumps of footsteps made heavy with rage get louder--it's coming for you. You throw your full weight behind the door--and your faith in its ability to keep the threat at bay...