Chains of Fear

It’s been years since anyone stepped outside without a mask, and even as I crack open the door, I lift up my arm to shield my mouth and nose. No one could have guessed how far this pandemic could have gone, how air filters could have flown off the shelves, how no one was safe. The death tolls reached a peak so high the government mandated cremation as the only disposal method of deceased bodies. My family was one of the lucky ones; we only have one urn on the mantle.

The news broadcast just came across the screen. The virus has officially been wiped from Earth’s face, and we as humans can resume our normal life. But what is normal at this point?

Across the street, I see others emerging from their homes, tans around their mouths where masks have resided for months on end. One pair of neighbors cautiously approaches each other, maintaining at least six feet of space between them as they talk. Despite everything, there’s a fear in all of us you can’t just take away by proclaiming we’re clean. It might take years before everyone acts normal, and even then, only those who don’t remember this pandemic will have no scars.

I turn around and take a look at my house, the prison I’ve been chained by fear to for months. I’ve grown to hate its walls, the granite counters, vaulted ceilings, and cracked baseboards. Flaws I never would have noticed before are now engrained into my memory from hours I would lie on the ground, gazing around at whichever room I happened to be in at the time. Each day I would wake up late because rising early meant more hours to fill. Nothing changes when you sit at home and gaze at the hopeless stars in the shapes of your ceiling.

No one was sure when it would all end, and now that it has, I feel more lost than when I was stuck inside. Quarantined, I had walls to surround me, limits that confined me and made me secure. Now, there are no limits except those I set for myself, and those are even more frightening.