Purgatory

Chapter 1

I hate the way crowds sift through open spaces like sand through cracks and crevices.  Each granule only really thinks of themselves as they flow through time with every other granule acting as just another obstacle or object in their path.  No time to fight through or find another path, this one is comfortable and normal, just ebb and meld.  Don’t make eye contact, they are only objects and the path is the focus.  Just keep spatial awareness in mind and granules flow as they should through any space.

Cities reek with crowds, and I always let my parents know of my displeasure.  Living in a city was no fun, especially when most of my childhood consisted of farm life.  I grew up in a small town where pretty much everyone lived on a farm.  It was quaint and familiar, where everyone waved as they drove by.  The days were fresh and often smelled of freshly cut grass, and the nights were vibrant and accompanied by the serenade of crickets.

I missed that life constantly throughout the latter part of grade school, and it was likely the reason I chose to attend Centrest College after I graduated.  It wasn’t completely in the country side, but it was just outside the city deep within what could pass as a modest forest.  The campus was quiet, and the rules were a bit strict, but I didn’t really care.  I don’t even think I really paid that much attention to their educational programs.

My mother never tried to sway my decision despite the fact she wasn’t thrilled with its “discriminatory nature.”  It’s just an all-girls college, but my mom took it as some sort of pseudo-feminist or sexist agenda.  My mother was always in a constant state of analyzing, her thoughtful eyes peering as if to see everything.  She would nod her head once ever so slightly when she made a mental note, her short cropped hair slightly wavering with the nod as if to say she’d figured it out.  She was a psychologist for some random organization I’ve never heard of, but she held her profession with high esteem, often throwing it out in conversation as if it was revolutionary news.

My father wasn’t quite as social, and was more like me when it came to crowds.  My father was a computer programmer making who knows what for whatever firm or company.  I don’t really know, but mostly because he never liked to bring work home with him.  There was only one time I asked him what he did because I had to for some elementary school project.

His eyes, rather than being analytical, were more appreciative.  As we drove through the Centrest campus, my father would slow down and admire the foliage and how the sunlight struggled through the trees and spilled out over the lush green lawns.

“I bet the air is real fresh here,” he mused as we parked outside the dormitories.  It was my mother’s career that brought us into the city, and while my father was just as unhappy there as I was, he rarely reminded my mother of his feelings.  She tended to over analyze.

My mother eyed my father keenly before exiting the car.  “What’s the matter with the air at home?” she asked with hidden venom.  The question, to me, seemed rather stupid to ask, and yet my mother always felt it necessary to ask really stupid questions with very obvious answers.  Over the years I learned to bite my tongue, but my father never called her on it.  He shrugged as he usually does, his lanky arms slightly flailing from the action around his tall frame.

“City air is just different, love.”  Calling her pet names was always a sure way to calm my mother.  She enjoyed the verbal assurance that she was still wanted, possibly because she would always see things that weren’t always true.  I admired my father for putting up with her and her constant stream of questions.  She seemed like she never trusted him, and when she questioned him it was like an interrogation almost.  Dutifully, my father would answer every question until he could find a moment to reassure her of his love.  It was cute, but also a bit too…romantic for my taste.