Solacium

Sometimes he goes to his car to run errands - when the bus route won't take him far enough. 

Sometimes he goes to his car to fetch a forgotten item, one of many taking occupancy in his littered backseat.

Sometimes he goes to his car just to think.

Sometimes he goes to his car to scream. 

Right now I can see him as I open the front door of the flat; his hands are flying and his mouth is gaping wide and agonised and --

"Hey, hey."

I walk over to where the car is parked on the curb and press my palms against the glass. 

I can feel his screams.

"Hey, listen to me."

He slams his fists into the steering wheel, over and over and over and over.

"Listen."

There's no way he can hear me over the muffled din inside the vehicle - raising my voice will make him panic more, so I wait until he pauses to gasp for breath and press his forehead against the door. 

His face is twisted in pain. 

I can see the tears dripping from the bridge of his nose.

"Listen to me, listen. Unlock the door."

He doesn't look up, but he shakes his head minutely and clasps his hands over his ears. 

"I'm right here."

Only a glass window separates my palm from the rest of him.

Then a low sob in his throat evolves into a horrible screech.

"Oh God! Kill me! Please kill me!"

"I'm not going to leave you."

He twists his fingers in his hair and pulls savagely.

He's hyperventilating.

The sound is stifled by the vehicle, but I hear every word.

"I want to die!"

"I know. I know."

When he finally unlocks the door, several minutes later, after he remembers how to breathe, he's too exhausted to do anything more than stare at the windshield. So I gently push him across the seat and take the driver's place and shut the door again.

He leans against me, silent. Spent.

I gently rub his temples - he likely has a headache by now - and turn on the cassette player.

Safe.