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He inhales deeply through the nose, then out through the mouth, his chest rising and falling with the action. The park surrounds him like an endless canvas; a vast expanse of green grass interspersed with sinuous paths. It’s a quiet afternoon, except for the sounds of birds chirping and pedestrians strolling by.
Marc sits under an elm tree; eyes closed, legs crossed with his palms resting on his knees. For once, he feels in control. Every breath is slow, methodical. He concentrates on the oxygen entering his lungs, the steady exhale from his mouth. The sun filters through the leaves and heats the surface of his skin: his dry knuckles, the back of his neck, his bare arms.
An internal scoff. No wonder we’re losing muscle mass, says Jake snidely.
Marc’s lips twitch, before he checks himself. He’s zen, he’s chill—he’s cool as a cucumber. No amount of inner talk can distract him, even if it’s Jake annoying the shit out of him. He visualizes the book that Layla gave him. The chapter on staying mindful: Live in the present. Put your thoughts to rest and don’t seek outwardly. Focus on your senses and give them your full attention.
Jake sighs in the background. Boring.
And the thing is, Marc knows it’s boring, but that’s not the point. He’s doing it because he has to. He needs something to take his mind off the chaos in his head; the stress looming on the horizon, hurtling closer and piling inside of him, like a car wreck in slow motion.
You deal with stress by fighting, says Jake vehemently. By hitting and yelling. Not sitting around like a chicken.
“I’m not sitting around, I’m trying to meditate,” pushes Marc through gritted teeth. “You had your moment. You chose to squander it on a day of drinking. Now it’s my turn.”
Then, he flattens his mouth. He’s talked too much, and it’s messing with his concentration. He shoves Jake’s words away and focuses back on the present. Breathe in, hold for six seconds, breathe out. Contract the muscles in his core, before releasing them slowly. But the alter doesn’t stay quiet for long.
I’m just saying. Spend one night with me, and you’ll never be stressed again. We’ll find some guys, have a few drinks, beat the living daylights out of them …
“That’s not how you deal with stress,” says Marc shortly.
Yes, it is. Trust me, it’s the only way to fight it. Now, get up and let’s do something.
“I’m not getting up.”
Why not? Come on—
Please, you two, says Steven, and Jake goes immediately quiet. He’s always been pussy-whipped for Steven. It’s a beautiful day out, and Marc should get a chance to relax and enjoy it.
Yes, he should. That’s when he realizes that his entire body has tightened like a bowstring. He purposefully releases the tension from his muscles, and unclenches his jaw, cocking it sideways to stretch it. There’s no use in getting worked up. He’s the one fronting and in control, Jake is in the backseat. Today is his day.
Though the temptation is there. To throw up his hands, grab his duffel bag and head home. But then, how would that help him? He’d still wake up the next morning with a heavy weight on his chest, his shirt drenched in sweat, and a scream lodged in his throat. The panic attacks were getting worse, and more debilitating; they were starting to affect his daily life. He couldn’t go on like this any longer.
With that final thought, he tries again. He expels all the negativity from his mind and fills it with more peaceful images. Steven had printed out pictures for him, small postcard-sized inspirations, and stuck them to the fridge. All he had to do was imagine them in full motion. Oceans of water, moving free and without boundaries. A soft ebb and flow of a tide, swaying back and forth like French fries. A gentle breeze gliding across his cheeks like melting ice cream. The sun shining down on him, hot and mouth-watering, like a delicious golden pizza...
With a jolt, his eyes crack open.
“Will you stop thinking about food?” growls Marc.
What kind of man leaves the house without breakfast or lunch? complains Jake, indignant. Are you trying to starve us?
Jake...
“It’s part of the meditation,” explains Marc as patiently as he can. “Fasting helps to concentrate. It lowers the blood pressure, which in return allows you to clear your head. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, asshole.”
Mates, come on. Let ’s take a deep breath and…
You callin’ me an asshole? You’re the douche who’s wasting all our Sundays on meditation crap that’s not even gonna help.
Marc bares his teeth. “It’s not crap, and I’m not a douche.”
So you can call me an asshole, but I can’t call you a douche? Then, obnoxiously: Douche, douche, douche.
“I said stop it.”
Douche, douche—
“I am not a douche!”
Yes, you are! Jake snarls back, before slapping him in the face.
Marc’s head whips to the side, and he stares in shock. “Did you just whack me?”
Yeah, so? How is your zen bullshit gonna help you now? Snap out of it, man!
Jake aims at him again, and now Marc is getting really pissed. He dodges the first hit, but the second grazes his cheek. In retaliation, Marc punches him in the balls, and they both topple over the grass, groaning in pain.
He cups himself and blinks through the fresh sting of tears.
Oh my god, says Steven in the aftermath. You are both IDIOTS. Can’t you two both get along for one day?
Marc opens his mouth, ready to defend himself, but Steven lectures on: Jake, stop harassing Marc. It’s his turn to front, and he should be able to spend his time as he likes, even if that means meditating in the park.
Jake scowls in response.
Marc, if you think this will help you, then do it. But you need to ignore Jake for once and for all and focus on yourself. Stop rising to the bait for god’s sake.
When the wave of pain has passed, Marc levers himself up on one elbow, and slowly lifts to a sitting position. He glares down at the grass.
“Whatever,” says Marc. “I’d love to see how you’d react from getting slapped.” There’s an icy silence in return, and suddenly Marc remembers punching Steven in the face after kissing Layla in Cairo. He quickly adds: “Getting slapped for no reason.”
He scratches his neck and his eyes dart around to divert his attention. There’s a kid ten feet away, staring at him with wide eyes, and ice cream dripping down his hand. Marc’s ears burn with embarrassment.
“Scram, kid,” he growls, and watches in satisfaction as he scurries away in fear.
Marc, comes the sharp voice. You scared a poor child.
At least Jake shares his sense of humor, and laughs.