Inside OUT

Her cigarette is burning and her arms are flayling as she lives out her nightmare. The film reel in her mind of her worst fears plays without end. She is talking to someone I don't see. Yelling....now screaming.
Her hair is dirty, stringy with grease, unkempt. She grasps her forehead in one hand as if she must support her head to bear its terrible weight. The cigarette she holds in her other hand rarely meets her lips, it is only in those brief seconds of reprieve from the battery of memories that she inhales deeply and hopes this time it will dull the ache in her heart.
We don't know what to do with her. When she walks into our orderly life, our organized drone of 1/2 caf frappacinos and mocha lattes. She doesn't fit in. Her anguish is too visible. Why can't she hide it like us? Why can't she bury her nightmares behind a smile, like me?
I give her a sidelong glance and then pretend to be intent on my journal when she looks towards me, or the person she imagines is next to me. I can't be sure. Now as she walks awkwardly out she spills the steaming hot coffee on her hand and doens't even seem to notice. The world her mind has created is too terrible, too enthralling for her to care.
Her name is Barbara. I could be that woman. Her weathered face was once soft like mine, her words concise and enunciated, her heart once supple and naiive. She and I, You and Barbara are more alike than most would think. We are frightened by her because we see ourselves inside out. She carries her sickness on the outside, and her audible scream of confusion and sadness resonates with the silent scream in our own souls.