Tunnel

                         

Contest:  Write a one thousand word story based on a photograph.



                                                         

Tunnel

I stood at the edge of the tunnel and held my breath, wondering if I would make it to the end.  Closing my eyes, I concentrated on regulating my breathing.  It had been four years since I had first crossed that long passageway, and today, they expected me to make the trip the other way.  But what if I failed?

My world filled others my age with envy.  I was young, twenty-one to be exact, blonde and beautiful.  May flowers decorated Paris, flowing from the Haussmannian balconies, filling pots in front of restaurants on the Champs-Élysées and claiming their rightful place in the many city parks and gardens.

After classes at the American University, my handsome French boyfriend always met me for dinner, a movie or just a stroll along the Seine River, and if my studies allowed me the time, my mother met me in the city to visit a museum together or just have an espresso on the terrace of a local café.

When I needed to do laundry or just get away, all I had to do was to take the RER train to the suburbs where my family lived.  When I arrived, my sisters would always remind me that I wasn’t the only princess in the family.  My dad adored me, and I him.  No, there wasn’t much in my life that wouldn’t make other young girls want to trade places with me.

My high school grades and SAT results won me recognition in the United States and provided me with a scholarship at a most distinguished university, all of which I turned down.

When my family moved to Paris, the thought of going off to a university by myself in the States was beyond me, and that was how I found myself living in an apartment in Paris by myself at the age of eighteen.  Well, I wasn’t really by myself, I did have two roommates, but after a while, I wanted my own place so that my boyfriend could stay.

That was my first boyfriend.  He was a little nuts, and my family helped to force him to stop stalking me.  Although, sometimes, I still wake up at night, sweating after a nightmare where he is standing over my bed with his face, marked by its horrible sneer, approaching mine.  When this happens, I get up shaking, and make myself a tea, or I use to when I was still in my apartment.

My second boyfriend, the current one, is much nicer.  He is older and not a Muslim from the Middle East, he’s an artist.  Although he is more than ten years older than me, he’s still young, especially in his head, so we like to do the same things.  He did ask me to marry him, and my parents like him, but I’m not sure.

Because he was out of work, he had lots of time to be with me.  This was fun, and he did respect the fact that I had to study.  I’ve always been a straight A student.

Sometimes it was a bit hard though.  He was always loving and everything, but dealing with his depression didn’t help me very much with mine.

Graduation was approaching and I needed to concentrate.  My parents had offered to send me back to the States for grad school, but that was too far away.  My French was good, but not good enough for me to study in a French university and have stellar grades.  What was I going to do with my life?

Money got a little tight, so I moved back in with my parents.  That was fun, at least it was when my sisters weren’t bickering or my parents weren’t making all that noise.  Then I felt like I needed to pull my hair out.  Luckily, my mother’s friend let me study at her house when she was traveling.  Then she moved and sold her house.

To get to classes, I had to take the train every day.  Part of the voyage was outside, but during most of the trip, the train traveled through tunnels.

Finals were approaching, and I didn’t have anywhere to study.  My family drove me nuts, my boyfriend was depressed, and the library was so far away.

Back and forth I rode the train until one day, I couldn’t.  My breathing quickened as the panic rose.  I called my mom in tears.  “I can’t breathe.  Come get me.”

I never took my finals.  My mom and dad sent me to this hospital, just like I asked them to.  The doctors said that I had trouble handling change.  That was four years ago.  Today, they expect me to walk through that tunnel and start a new life.  They want me to leave the hospital and take the job that they found for me in a café.  I’m well now, or that’s what they tell me.

So here I am standing at the end of the tunnel.  Can I make it?  I don’t know.  Do I want to leave? 

They’re pushing me now.  Not really, well, my father’s hand is on my back.  Okay, I can do this.  All I need to do is slow my breathing down.  It’s just a tunnel.  Just a few steps.

I don’t know.  It’s too soon.  Why are they forcing me to walk through this tunnel?  They know that I hate tunnels.

My dad is next to me, I grab his hand.  My mother takes the other one.  Where is my boyfriend?  When was the last time I saw him?

I push their hands away.  I’m almost there.  It’s too much.  I double over, hyperventilating.  Don’t touch me.

Another few steps.  I can do it.  Just a little more.  The light is on my shoes.  I’m almost there.  One, two, three steps.  I’m out!  The sun is shining on my face.  It’s warm and it feels good.  I made it.  I did it by myself.  I’m going to be all right.