There’s a pounding in my head. It’s this incessant thumping that never stops. When I close my eyes, I can almost picture a herd of cattle marching toward me, their hoofbeats thundering in unison.
I have nightmares of a giant stick of butter trapping me in a room. It would slowly melt until I was submerged in the nasty liquid yellow with no way to escape. I would cling to the melting slab, desperate to stay afloat until it eventually disappeared.
I think it started when I was eight, visiting my grandmother in Arizona. We had waffles for breakfast and she smeared butter into all sixteen slots—to the point it became more butter than waffle. It oozed out of each hole like a pimple getting popped. I remember the wave of horror that came over me as I watched my grandmother willingly take a bite from that monstrosity. The steady drip of melting butter down the sides reminded me of the unbearable Arizona heat and the constant streams of perspiration it produced.
In my teens, I developed a lactose intolerance. I couldn’t help but wonder if my years living in fear of butter had somehow contributed to this problem.
“It runs in the family,” my mom had said.
She told me how sorry she was, and that I would have to give up some of my favorite foods. I agreed, because it was too humiliating to tell her that I really didn’t mind it at all. In fact, it finally gave me a reason to avoid butter. Instead of admitting my weakness, I could simply blame it on the conveniently timed allergy.
I’ve turned twenty and the weight of my fear is becoming heavier. The pounding in my head is getting faster, as if the cattle have progressed to a full blown gallop. Every second brings me closer to revealing my secret and shamefully admitting it to my roommates. If they don’t know already. It’s hard not to flinch at the side door of the fridge, where a plethora of dairy products reside.
It was pure terror that drove me to remove all of the dairy from the fridge, hurling them in my neighbor’s garbage so as to not draw suspicion. But STILL the cattle gallop onward, thumping mercilessly in my skull. I denied their accusations, but my roommates definitely suspect it was me. I’m the only one who drinks almond milk, which I foolishly left untouched.
My roommate claims I mumble about dairy in my sleep, but I think she’s trying to gauge my reaction. I’ve done my best to stay calm and feign ignorance. But she knows me better than I know myself, and I’ve never been a good actor. Especially with this pestering sound clouding my thoughts. I find myself constantly tapping, desperately trying to block out the noise.
My best friend remarks on my agitation. She asks me if I’ve eaten, which I foolishly decline. My other roommates approach but I can barely hear them over the pounding in my head. Now they are circling me, offering various food items on platters, pretending to be thoughtful friends providing a meal. Butter croissants, butter pasta… when will this farce end? T he cattle are so loud, I can’t hear myself think! In my desperation, I race to the neighbor’s trash can and empty the assortment of butter, cheese, and milk at their feet. “Yes, I stole your precious dairy! It’s right here!” I shout, voice frantic.
“Now please, make the cattle stop! Why won’t they stop?”
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