Coping Skills
Or How I Survived Nothing
It’s hot. Suffocatingly hot, but there is one task at hand and an hour in which to do it. Alienu’s black eyes scan the Circle. She swallows warm dusty saliva — positive she’s as unreadable as any of them. “You nailed this neutral Stepford crap. Game on, Suckers.”
takA fi MmaA takA fi rraA Taka fi chottI, takA fi onG, Taka Daaaa EY.
They’ve been chanting it for an hour. Alienu’s mind pushes back. “You think this crowd’s gonna show if they’re onto you?! Look at ‘em! Friggin’ zombies.”
The Members of Circle 55 sit equidistant on sharp rocks, but they don’t sweat or squirm. No expression. No reaction. Smiles, tears, bouts of anger don’t need to be forbidden, because they’re forgotten. The thermometer just hit 111F and not one has broken a bead of sweat.
takA fi MmaA takA fi rraA Taka fi chottI, takA fi onG, Taka Daaaa EY.
Alienu sits on folded legs, bleeding from the punctures. These pourous lava rocks are bloodthirsty, plus the neck support scratches like hell. Circle 55 wears heavy contraptions that look like thick woven African chokers. How else do they keep their heads up during hours of chanting? The itching brings up anger, but Alienu is poker-faced; able to pass to Circle 55 through a coping skill called splitting. Coping skills…we used them to survive childhood…
