Fear, or, a portrait.

Lorna has felt fearful this week. Whether or not this fear is justified or even logical is, in this case, immaterial. Travelling on a train out of London away from urban life last week, walking through two carriages which contained no people of colour. Being a small, young-looking female – still a Mademoiselle, not a Madame – Lorna is afraid of the workmen downstairs. Hello is not even in her mouth. What will they take from her?

Lorna wants to learn, but Lorna does not want to share. Not any more. If she gives they will take or trample. Lorna is afraid to engage, make eye contact, speak, in a room full of people with name tags. Lorna does not want to seem like a snooty bitch but her arms wrap her chest, fingers play across her lips. Lorna says who she is. They change the words in minutes. Things precious taken from her, Lorna does not like. Lorna takes pictures of her self and stares at the strangeners she’s creating.

Lorna, Lorna, Lorna is close to tears and too far away. She’s afraid of making things worse.



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