I walked on the busy sidewalk, conscientiously keeping left. There wasn’t a written rule, I suppose, that people should keep left, but where I lived, vehicles generally kept left, and people generally kept left when going up or down the stairs, or on the escalators. So I keep left when I walk, an attempt to minimise the amount of people who walk into my path.
But no. It seems no one seems to care where they walk, and where others are. Perhaps it’s just me. I’m not exactly menacing or intimidating to look at, and maybe if I were a burly man, rippling with muscles, people would get out of my way.
Unfortunately for me, people seemed not only to ignore my presence, they seemed to like to deliberately walk into my path, so that I had to scramble to one side to avoid a collision. Especially well-dressed, made up ladies. I am most likely stereotyping, but from experience, whenever I see a group of or just one of those types of ladies, strutting towards my direction with their painstakingly applied make up and flashy, chic outfits, they would almost always walk straight on into my path. They walk like there’s a wind in their steps, like they own the streets.
Sometimes, they would throw me a nasty side eye, sometimes they’d straighten up and seem almost to be preening. But most of the time, they’d careen straight ahead, or even swerve right into my path, causing me to have to hurriedly glide out of their way. During times when I can’t do so, for example, the times when I’m already on the outer left edges of the sidewalk, and going any further would mean going onto the road and perhaps getting hit by a car, or if there’s a wall right next to me and there was literally no way I could go further to the side, they’d smash into me, their disgusting shoulders punching into mine. And I’d have to wipe down my arm after, to get rid of the distinct aura of assholery that I would feel stuck to my arm from contact with them.
Men do that a lot too, to be fair, but generally if I held my path, they tended to swerve off at the last minute. Once or twice I’ve collided with these idiots, when I finally got fed up and refused to scurry out of their way.
Anyway, I’m sick of it. So that day, as I walked, arms crossed, I imagined, just for my own catharsis, holding an invisible blade out with my left hand, so that the blade stuck out past my right arm. I imagined each of these bulldozing humans walking by, brushing by me, and getting their arms ripped into, the blade gouging out chunks of their flesh. The mental imagery was immensely gratifying.
Then one lady, in stilettos, a tight dress and bright red lipstick flounced my way. I groaned internally, knowing what I could expect. As predicted, she took one look at me and her path began to slant towards me, her strut determined and unwavering.
As she strode the diagonal path into my way, her eyes haughty and her expression snide, I imagined my fantasy blade sharpening itself, its surface glinting in the sun. I resisted the urge to get out of her way – after all, I was already keeping to my side of the road – and squared myself. She walked smack into my right arm as I braced for the impact, left hand clutching the invisible blade.
She let out a sharp intake of breath. I turned to glare at her, at all her melodramatic gall after steering herself into my path. My jaw unhinged itself. Her arm was bleeding. The blood was actually spurting, like in the movies. A deep ragged wound had opened in her right arm, right where it would have hit my imaginary blade. IMAGINARY.
I looked at my left hand and gasped. Blood laced the edges of the blade, which otherwise remained invisible. I dropped it, and it hit the floor with a loud clank. The lady stared up at me in disbelief. “You fucking…” She trailed off, eyes wide, then fainted.
All around me, screams arose.
“Call the cops!” Someone screamed. A man near me grabbed me, holding me in a bear hug. “I got her!” He yelled.
I just stood there, crushed in the man’s arms, dumbfounded.
“What’s your problem?” The lady asked. I blinked rapidly. The surroundings warped back to normalcy. The lady was facing me, glaring. She was not bleeding. I looked around. Everyone was walking along as usual, though one or two were starting to stare at the lady and I, as the lady stared me down.
“What?” I asked, still dazed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” She asked.
My brain began to register the situation. It seemed she had walked by me, unscathed, bumped into me as she passed. I was half turned in her direction.
“You…bumped into me.” I stammered, still trying to comprehend what had happened.
“YOU bumped into ME.” She said.
“Sure, whatever.” I muttered, turning back and walking off. I barely heard her snide comments as I focused on the path ahead. What had happened? Had I just zoned out and fantasised a whole scenario in those split seconds when she had collided into me?
But it had felt so real. Everything had been sharp, solid, clear. I shook my head to clear it. I stared at my left hand. I could still feel the weight of the blade in it. Then I saw the specks of blood on the back of my palm. I froze, staring at the red dots. Could they have been from something else? Did I get near any red paint or substance today?
Someone tutted as they moved to avoid me.
I stirred myself and walked on, determined to put the whole weird situation behind me.
It happened a few more times. I don’t know why I kept on with it, the whole imagining a blade cutting into these assholes thing. I should’ve stopped, after the first time. But I convinced myself that it wasn’t real, what had happened, each time. But I think a part of me also wanted something to happen. I wanted them to get their comeuppance. One of those times, I imagined wearing an arm cuff with sharp spikes laced with poison. As a guy brushed roughly by me, I imagined the spikes cutting into his skin, releasing the poison within him.
A yelp, a look of disbelief, blood. Then his face slowly turning a weird blue. His tongue turning black after a few seconds sputtering on the floor. Then poof, back to reality, where nothing had happened to him. But my arm had an abrasion on it. A cuff-shaped abrasion right where I had imagined the arm cuff to be.
A few times, each time seeming to be pure fantasy, each time snapping back to reality, but each time, leaving some mark of what had happened in my mind. Others could see the marks too. My friend asked about the abrasion. A stranger pointed out blood on my shirt from another incident, with concern.
I’m not sure what’s happening. Why my fantasies are coming to life, then disappearing. Why hints of them remain in reality.
But these days, I’m still picturing it. People are still walking into me, and on different days, I picture different weapons and methods of punishment, depending on my mood. One day I imagined holding up a Gatling gun and hosing the perpetrator down in bullets. It was gory, horrifying, carthartic. And ultimately, with no consequences as I popped back to reality.
It might not be the healthiest way to cope, but well, whatever keeps us going, right?