It starts with Red.
Just a little, around the edges, slightly pink, rather than the entire Red saturation that is sure to come.
Maybe you shake just a bit, your extremeties antithetic to your usual smooth movements, each fraction of your greater whole shuddering and shaking, your whole shit just disjointed.
Your breathing changes, the rhythmic steady inhalation you’re used to interupted by short, choppy bursts of oxygen that actually makes sounds on their exit.
Your eyelashes are rapidly landing and taking off from their perch on your cheeks.
Your internal themometer shoots up a few degrees.
Your throat metallic, like you swallowed poison.
Your chest weighted.
You’re accutely unaware of your nails digging craters in your palms.
Your hair on end.
Your limbs, tingling to move, the sensation crawling just beneath the skin.
And the Red, more prevalent now, inching it’s way past your mental velvet ropes, seeping into your facimilies, washing your vision.
The roar in your ears at parade decible.
And then you hold your breath.
And you sigh.
The red goes away, to be replaced by black and white.
Cut and dry. Straight lines.
Raw uncut, straight.
You continue with your show.
You don’t believe in monkeys.