F.F.F.

‘Use the wall to guide you,’ the staff member said. ‘If you get overwhelmed, turn around and follow it back out.’

Before I turned that corner—a dreaded thing—I was a complete human, my thoughts intact and within my own control. The first step I took, I registered the noise that began to build as I got closer and closer. 

The advice wasn’t disregarded completely. The wall guided me into this unknown space, the woven threads scratching against the tips of my fingers. I shivered as the hairs on the back of my neck stood. I wasn’t ready for carpeted walls; I had only just come to terms with hardwood floors in a kitchen in place of tiles. 

Hey, what do you think of carpeted bathrooms?

Fuck no.

But, warm toes when you get out of the shower—

Fuck. No.

I took another three steps, and the wall dipped. I followed like a lemming and was swallowed into the darkness. The bright cerulean-blue jumper I wore disappeared before my eyes, replaced with pitch black. I tried to find my hand, grounded in the scratchy texture under my fingers. Nothing.

My heart began to jump. Did I just wander into the dark abyss of a monster’s mouth? The threads became thousands of little legs, centipedes crawled up and down my arm. I take a step back, away from the wall, away from my anchor in the darkness. 

Did I really walk into the monster’s mouth voluntarily?

The noise finally registered, breaking into my ears, loud and intrusive. A ferocious wave, that I had no choice but to be swept under. I might’ve screamed but that would’ve been swallowed up by the uproar of applause. Not the camaraderie that you’d see in an AFL game, where the unified love and hate of a crowd washed away with each passing second of play. No, this was an applause that suited a battlefield; brutal, overwhelming, near inescapable. 

My heart rabbited in my chest, beating my ribs like an animal in a locked cage. My thoughts, once so clear and concise, were frozen along with my legs. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t think. The applause kept thundering in my ears. 

In nature, we, as humans, have many ways to handle stress. Fight-flight-freeze responses are reactions to emergency situations. To put it in the most annoying way possible; different people in different situations react differently to different stimuli. 

Do we fight and meet the charging monster halfway, run away from the beast, freeze while staring at our impending doom?

Move, I need to move, why can’t I move, what’s wrong with my legs, where are my legs, do I have legs, I can’t see, how can I fight the dark if I can’t see it, do I have eyes, if I don’t have eyes how can I see nothing—

Ultimately, we are simple creatures. Like other animals, we need food, water and shelter. We may have more nuance to our consciousness—if other humans are to be believed—but we never truly outgrow from that basic state. Adults are just older children with experience handling emotions and conflict control, as a wise person once told me.

‘Once you know how to talk to children, adults are easy to understand. They just use fancier words.’

They also say things that haunt me at night.

‘My, aren’t you an old soul?’

‘You’re quite mature for your age!’

‘Age is just a number, you know?’

I know that the law is just a book.

Of course, fight-flight-freeze response helps when you’re in an emergency situation, but what do you do when you’re stressed and overwhelmed by something that is simultaneously within your control yet so outside of it? More entertainment, more stimulation, more drama, more dopamine, more, more, more, more—

The issue with ‘more’ is that it had always taken me to places I wasn’t prepared for, whether I was too young, too desperate, too exhausted or too sheltered.

An eleven-year-old finding herself on Wattpad in search of something fun to do.
Go back to Poptropica and Minecraft and Cool Maths Games, go back, go back, go back—

A thirteen-year-old scrapping through the trenches of PornHub with nothing but curiosity to guide her. 

I didn’t even care about sex, so why did I do that?

Everyone else was doing it and I wouldn’t want to be seen as an innocent and silly child, now would I?

I feel sick.

A sixteen-year-old stuck in her house, Googling the answers to her closed-book Year 11 assessments.

If they didn’t want me to cheat, why did the make it so easy to cheat? I’m only taking advantage of the resources available to me.

It wasn’t the school you were failing; it was yourself.

An eighteen-year-old watching bloody wars on a small screen that fit into her hand, wondering how much tragedy could display on her phone before it fizzled out.

It never fizzles out. I don’t want more.

No more, no more, no more, stop scrolling, stop, stop, STOP—

I blinked twice, still unable to see anything. The applause kept rattling in my ears. My heart continued to beat. A second passed before I realised what was different, I could move again. A sense of elation hit me and like any person born after the eighties, I reached to my pocket and grabbed my phone.

Sun 0951: Last week, you averaged 6 hours, 53 minutes of screen time per day on this device.

Haha, I’m better than the average Gen Zer. Take that mum and dad! 😎😎😎

New notification: Your screen time was up 6 per cent last week, for an average of 7 hours, 17 minutes a day on this device. 

I spoke too soon. Oops. 😒😒

It’s strange how even in the total darkness, my hand knew how to unzip my bag and pull out my phone. It was as if it was the only thing that could anchor me to reality, especially when it so often made me forget and drift away. 

Sometimes, it felt good to forget, to tend to colourful pixel farm animals and crops that needed the Almighty Tap of Engagement to keep fictional production going. To watch poker cards fly through the screen in a game of Solitaire. To complete levels by rotating a column with colourful platforms, ensuring the descending ball doesn’t bounce on the wrong colour. Simple tasks, simple rewards.

INVITE YOUR FRIENDS TO PLAY ▉▉▉▉▉▉ TO WIN SOME REWARDS!

Everyone likes rewards.

Other times, I can’t forget and I am reminded that I can see humanity’s worst with a tap of a thumb.

Yo, real talk for a sec, all women want to be controlled by a man in their life and nobody can change my mind

🡺Guy has clearly never met a lesbian
🡺 Or a woman irl
🡺 Lmaooooooo

I don’t understand when “protests” suddenly became so violent?

🡺 Tell me you’ve never read a history book without telling me you’ve never read a history book

🡺It’s because of the left-wing ideology

🡺 It’s actually because of the far-right

Holy shit, protesters are soooo annoying. Like, all you’re doing is standing there and shouting, making all of us uncomfortable and ruining our day stfu

🡺 I stopped caring when I noticed that one of them had blue hair. Everyone knows that’s a symptom of the most insidious mind virus going around.

🡺 I KNOW RIGHT???

🡺 Kys

My phone lit up, close-up photo of my dog’s big wet eyes with her fuzzy face resting on a small black paw glowed in the pervasive darkness. The memory of her breath, repulsive in scent and snuffled by her short pug-like snout. The ache of her small paws digging into my liver and throat as she excitedly greets me when I sit down after coming home from a long day of dealing with humans. Her softly curled fur tickles my face as she snuggles into my face.
A welcoming and soothing experience, despite the pain.

Anchored, I pressed the torch symbol and finally, finally, I could see in the darkness. My hammering heart calmed, ever so slightly as my eyes danced along the foam beams and low carpeted ceiling that cushioned and encouraged the endless noise that continued to rattle in my sore ears. I nearly cried out in euphoric victory. I could escape. I could flee.

Run, run, run, run—

The air seemed to snap as I raced around the corner and out of the black box. The staff member with a kind smile looked at me with a knowing glint in her eye. “It’s quite overwhelming, isn’t it?” she said. In my head, I called her the most unsavoury of things. Outwardly I could only give her an awkward grin and a hum in response, too rattled to really speak.

Outside the black box, I could still hear the never-ending applause, though the weight of the sound wasn’t as heavy, buffered by the carpeted and foam walls that were made to insulate. Over on the far side of the wall, a warm-cream spotlight shone on two white plaques on the wall, the didactic. 

It’s hard to put a name to the feeling that bubbled in my stomach as I read about the creation of the artwork, all it took was a team of producers and the artist to record an individual audience member at every large event in Ohio for an entire year, compiling an algorithm to overlay different cheers, whistles and applause to emulate the roar of a single crowd. For the longest time, my eyes were glued to the final words of that didactic.

‘The same crowd never gathers twice.’

I can’t help but compare it to the countless times I’ve gone to share that one funny meme before the app suddenly refreshes, and the post is never to be seen again. How the continuous bullshit political messages I can’t stand are pushed by similar accounts that I will never see again. The crowd may never be the same, but their message—their purpose—always seems to be.

I turned to look at the black box once more, listening to the muffled crowd I will never encounter again. In my hand, I squeezed my phone and ran my thumb along the chipped edges and glass screen, reminding me of everything I hate and love about it. 

I turned and walked away, further into the gallery, dedicating most of my time to settling my thoughts, and ignoring the incessant call of my human instincts to bite, scratch and claw at the overstimulation. Those urges clung to me, unwilling to fade into the depths of my brain, much like a ceaseless applauding audience.