That night, I can not sleep. Panic attacks roll through me, like ice cold waves pulling me under. I have terrible visions of what the next days will hold, I imagine the most terrible things, hearing Jenny’s voice ringing in my ears. You could be raped. You could be killed. I guess the severity of the situation has not occurred to me completely before now. It has all happened so fast, my mind is still hanging back in the normal, safe routines of everyday life.
I check my phone regularly through the night to see the time. 6 more hours, 5, 4, 3 more hours. The panic fills me. Until now, I had not believed that anxiety and panic attacks could really be so bad, but they are much worse than I thought. Like cold knives stabbing in my chest and my heart trying to flee my body. I drift in and out of sleep. I need sleep. Who knows if I will have any in The Camps? The anxiety follows me into my dreams, visualizing itself in nightmares. When my alarm goes off at five in the morning, I feel even more tired than when I went to bed. I feel like a man headed for a hanging, I feel envious for those who, in this instant, wake up to go to their regular jobs or schools. I can’t believe I did not appreciate such everyday life before.
I walk into the bathroom. My body, my hands, are shaking so bad everything becomes a struggle. Foam is flying everywhere when I brush my teeth. Pulling up my pants becomes almost impossible, since my grip keeps losing, and the pants fall down, again and again. I try to be brave, but my mind is so scattered it is impossible to gather it into anything rational or inspiring. I have never heard of anyone from The West dying in The Camps, at least. So I guess that is something.
I pull my hair back into a ponytail, trying to make myself feel more awake, more alert. I took psychology in high school, and I remember reading that ‘fake it till you make it’ actually works, that your behavior can trick your brain into feeling the way you behave. I smile to myself in the mirror, but it looks more like a grimace. I pull on my jacket, shoes, phone in pocket, and leave.
The police car is waiting outside. Sleek and black, with a white and blue symbol on each door, as well as white and blue lights on the roof, for the moment, turned off. White and blue, the colors of The West. A man in uniform comes out, grabs my suitcase, and puts it in the truck. I stand by hesitantly, watching him. I know my face must be very pale, as my heart pounds the blood to my muscles, leaving nothing for the skin in my face. He then takes a firm grip on my shoulders and escorts me into the back seat. I can hear the car door lock immediately after he closes it. There is a fence between the back seat and the front. To my surprise, I feel better. I do not have any power back here, in this small trap of a car. Here, there is no chance at all to run away. It feels like I am a robot, simply following orders. In psychology, it was called behaviorism. It said we were simply animals responding to the environment, that we did not think. I liked that theory. It takes away your responsibility. Go with the flow, not make any ripples.
We drive in silence. The engine is very quiet. I look out the window, seeing the light of the city flash before my eyes, it is still dark. I long for the next time I will see this view. In a little more than ten days. Then what I am dreading now will only be a memory, over. But I try not to think too much about that, it is too painful, and my whole body is focused on what lays in my nearest future. The drive feels long. I read once that a man headed for a hanging feels that he still has endless time. That there are still three more corners, still four more houses to pass along the way, still ten more steps.
Then the airport stretches out before my eyes, rows of big, white buildings, and a high glass tower touching the sky. A plane is coming in for landing as I watch.
The policeman opens the door again and lets me out. There is no need for handcuffs. He knows I have nowhere to go. He gives me back my small suitcase, and once again takes a grip on my shoulder, not too keep me from going anywhere, but I think it is symbolic, a power kind of thing. He takes me through the glass door, through the big main hall. I stand back as my suitcase is being checked in. We do not have to stand in line. The other passengers move quickly when they see the uniform, staring at me curiously. I think they can guess where I am headed. I would. How desperately I envy them. Wherever they are going, it must be better than my destination.
We walk quickly through the security. I have to give away my jacket and my phone, and walk slowly through a metal detector. I shiver, feeling cold and vulnerable without my jacket on, and sigh with relief when I get it back. The policeman steers me down the long, white corridors. I notice there is a smell of fresh paint in the air, and see that the whiteness on the walls is especially crisp. It must be new.
As we pass a small café, I ask if I may eat something. He looks at me, surprised, says that there are very few who can manage to eat something, anything, before going to the border. It’s not like I am hungry. My stomach feels like a nut. Small and hard, with no room in it. But I know I must eat, I will be needing my strength, and I’ve heard that there is very little to eat down there. So, since we have the time, I am allowed to sit down for a few minutes and nibble on a bread roll, with a slice of cheese and ham on it. My mouth is so dry, I am scared the food will get stuck in my throat and strangle me. After every bite I have to take a sip of water from a small water bottle, to make the food wet and mushy before I swallow, instead of using spit. The policeman sits beside me. We do not speak. He does not look at me, and I only send small, scared glances in his direction. I try to look around instead, trying to find something interesting to distract myself with, but everywhere I just see passengers staring at me, eyeing me. It makes me feel worse, like a target.
In the end, I only look down on the table, watching my own little finger make small, invisible circles on the plastic.
Then we walk to the gate. My heart beats faster for every step, but like a man on his way for a hanging, I comfort myself by saying that it is still one more flight after this. And that is what the policeman says too, when we reach the gate.
“This flight will last about four to five hours. It will take you closer to the border. Another officer will meet you at the next airport and escort you to the next plane, that will take you directly to the border.”
I nod.
“Say that you understand.”
“I understand.”
It does not sound like me anymore. The tones are different, like a scream being whispered into words.
We wait. The minutes pass by, so slowly, slowly, ten minutes, and then it is boarding. I don’t have to wait in line here either, a woman quickly rushes me to the front, scanning my ticket, and follows me into the plane, where I am the first to be seated. So I guess that is an advantage, at least. You may be killed and raped, and you will starve, but at least you do not have to wait in line for it.
I sit stiffly in my seat. I was lucky to have a window seat, up front in the cabin. I have always liked plane windows. They look so cute. Small and round, like the eyes of some baby animal. I lift up my hand and let my fingers touch the glass. It feels very thin beneath my fingertips. It seems incredible to think the kind of power, the pressure and the wind, these small sweet windows manages to keep out.
This is where I keep my focus as the other passengers board. On the window, and the freedom outside. At least I think it is freedom. Still, I can feel their eyes burning on my body, touching my skin with their prejudice. They must think I am a hardcore criminal, or maybe insane. I do not feel like I fit into any of those categories. I wonder what they would have said if I told them it was all because of a book. They probably would not have believed me, or they would have put me in the second category, insane.
The two seats next to me remain empty.