IT WOULD TAKE my entire Rock Hills High School volleyball team to
stop my forward momentum and get me back into the hypnotist’s chair. But
they’re not here. My screams drift in the air, shrill. And my terror. I hover
off the floor like a resurrected ghost in a bad dream, unable to sit back down,
unable to open my eyes.
“Hailey,” a familiar male voice
croons, “I’m going to count down from ten and when I reach one you’ll open your
eyes and feel rested and calm.”
Oh no I won’t. My heart is pounding,
my body thrumming with frustration.
“You won’t remember what’s made you
so afraid.”
But I will. No smooth-talking, pointy-nosed,
over weight snake-charmer is going to wipe these images from my brain with a
bit of trance-inducing meditation. The scent of stale smoke, strong mouthwash,
and my own dried sweat swirl around, biting.
“Ten, nine, eight …”
My eyes roll back in my head and
sharp fingernails scratch at invisible scabs.
“… seven, six, five …”
I can’t suck in enough air, but I
feel the chair hard against my thighs. I’m sinking back, no longer hovering.
“… four, three, two, one.”
Nothing. Maybe I never was off the seat.
The monotonous vibrations of a moment ago have ceased, vanished into
uncomfortably thick air.
