Snapshots: Pinball/Flipper by Matilda Colarossi

parallel texts: words reflected


Matilda Colarossi

I had experienced mad. It was just like when your head pops through the tightest part of a turtle-neck sweater and everything is black, and there’s that throbbing pressure on your temples.
That’s how it was for me.
It was the burning in your stomach that shoots up to your cheeks, burrowing through the esophagus, accompanied by thoughts, incessant, of unimaginable, yet very imaginable, danger. It was sweaty palms and palpitations.
And it was light, too. Sometimes. The light behind your eyelids in the dark, candescent fear ricocheting from lobe to lobe. It was the thud of cannon balls pinballing against the neurons.

So when I saw her eyes from across the aisle on the subway, pinballing, I knew.
She stood precariously, legs wide, gripping the hand rail with both hands. Her knuckles, under the frostbitten scabs of skin, were ashen. Her nails, the splintery eyelinered edges…

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