My outer shell splits in two. It sits beside me, hollow and smiling, waiting for the next layer to be pulled apart and placed beside us.
There are six. I have six faces that are exactly and precisely me. Yet different.
Some eyes are blue, some green or brown. Some lips red, others pink or peach.
Each one me.
Each one not.
My lunch tray, full of steaming food, makes me gag. Clatter of a dropped fork, shrill pitch of laughter, blur of clothing… These crack my next shell.
Over and over until I am small.
Human nesting doll.
April 2, 2016 prompt: Agoraphobia – In 99 words (no more, no less) write a response to an agoraphobic moment. Explore the character’s discomfort.