An Exaggerated Truth

The interior light intermittently flickers on and off, barely illuminating the battered
novel I am trying to read. The carriage is busy, yet nothing compared to
before. Although no seats, I am comfortable enough, not squashed, stood and
able to reach a handle for balance as the tube rattles through the tunnels.
Glancing around the carriage it amazes me. It is incredible how something, that
a few months prior would have seemed so alien, can now feel normal… routine.
The other commuters each have their own heads buried in books, newspapers or of
course on their phones. Some scattered around the carriage even sleep. All have
one thing in common, their masks.

The small strips of fabric that cover their mouth and nose vary in colour and print. It is
amazing how quickly large fashion houses were able to capitalize on the
situation, offering heavily branded masks at ridiculous prices, some as early
as the second month of the outbreak. I just wear the standard medical mask I
picked up for free at my local pharmacy before the shortage. I can taste the
antibacterial coating through the thin cotton.

Now as I focus for a moment on the taste, I feel it. I feel the gentle tickling
sensation at the back of my throat. I close my eyes, squeezing them tight as
the sensation grows. I open them and peruse the carriage eyeing if anyone is
paying attention. I can feel it building, I squeeze my eyes shut once more, this
time tighter, some how hoping that this would prevent my breath from passing
over the feathery demon that suddenly dwells in my throat. I can´t hold on any
longer. A gentle noise escapes my lips, soft from beneath the mask… innocent.
Regardless my eyes are now wide as I frantically scan the carriage, hoping…
praying no one has noticed… hoping in vain.

A man dressed in a full suit sat before me has his eyes fixed on me. The mask doing
nothing to hide the anger, the venom that screams silently towards me. He is
beginning to lower his paper and stand. Before he can take a step, a disruption
explodes further down the carriage, immediately drawing the attention of both of
us. An elderly, grey haired man is bent double, coughing so badly I cannot help
but imagine one of his lungs coming straight out his mouth. Several of the
commuters, both men and women, including the well-dressed man in front of me,
run towards the figure. A few months ago, this would have been in aid, now
though I know to look away before the first kick is placed. I am distracted by
another sensation building in my throat.

The train is coming into a station, not my stop, but there is no way I can stay on this
tube, not now. I force a glance toward the grey-haired figure, he is no longer
moving, a mere shadow, silent. Despite this the crowd continue to kick and
punch, extreme measures to ensure his disease will not be spread.

The doors slide open as the tube comes to a stop, the sound ironically like a cough,
mimicking, mocking my current torment. Before anyone else has registered the
station, I am already out the carriage and climbing the stairs out into the wet
evening air. Another cough escapes its inadequate restraints, this time louder
and thick. I quicken my pace. The streets are almost deserted. I cough again. I
can feel the eyes of the few strangers stabbing into me. The sensation is only
getting worse, the thin fabric does nothing to take the edge off the damp cold
air as it enters my lungs, each breath feeding the demons that are multiplying
in my throat. Another cough, it takes all my strength not to hunch forward, the
memory of the old man on the tube strengthens me and I continue, each kick I
recount quickening my step. I can now hear footsteps behind me. How many I do
not know; I dare not look. Yet another cough. More footsteps. Another cough. The
footsteps quicken. They are closer.

It is now the reality hits…  I will not make it home.