Paranoia

By: Audrey Yeung

The sun had set some hours ago. A friend had called, telling me to meet him in this bar. He sounded irritated. I couldn’t help but think the anger was directed at me. I stood before the bar now, squinting up at the neon sign that said “The Blue Armadillo”. Pushing open the creaking door, I took a seat at the bar stools. There was no one else but myself and a single bartender who quietly rearranged bottles of liquor behind him. The clock read 10:36. He was six minutes late. I was already becoming a little skittish. It was dark outside and the bar was practically abandoned. I watched the time change until it was 10:47. The bartender finally turned around.

“Are you going to order something?” he asked.

“I guess so,” I replied offhandedly.

“Well then, pick your poison,” he said. Startled by his choice of words, I directed my vision away from the clock.

“Poison?” I repeated.

“Drink. What do you want to drink?” the bartender rolled his eyes.

“Right, sorry. I’ll have an Old Fashioned, thanks,”

The bartender nodded and I looked back at the clock. I couldn’t help but think the worst. What if he had gotten into a car accident? Or what if he had gotten lost? It was getting late. Of course, if he was here, he would tell me I was just overthinking and being paranoid.

“Where is everyone anyway?” I asked. The bartender hesitated for a moment, or maybe that was just my imagination.

“Tonight’s just a bad night, I suppose,” he said. I reckoned 10:52 was rather early for a bar, but I didn’t bring it up. A thin layer of dust coated the countertop, the lights flickered unreliably, and I could spot a few cobwebs in the corner of my eye. It sure seemed like nobody came to The Blue Armadillo often. This seemed strange, as it was the only bar in town. But then again, this could mean the bar was simply due for a little maintenance and cleaning. I started to feel uneasy when the bartender set a glass in front of me.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, taking a sip. I caught a trace of the aroma. “Almond?”

“Yeah,” the bartender sounded a little surprised that I had identified the scent. “Almond Old Fashioned. New recipe. Tell me what you think.”

“It’s a little bitter,” I said. He nodded. I swear I saw him smile a little, but under the dim light, I convinced myself I was seeing things. Minutes passed and my friend had still not arrived. Where could he be?

Suddenly, my vision blurred and the room was beginning to spin slowly. I clutched the side of the table to level myself while everything around me spun a little faster. My head started to hurt and I couldn’t understand what was happening. I hadn’t had a headache this bad for years, and certainly not unprompted like it was now.

“I don’t feel so good,” I muttered, now feeling sick. The bartender barely flinched. My breathing grew heavier as my grip on the counter weakened against my will. I looked at the bartender.

“I need help, call the ambulance,” I whispered hoarsely, words barely able to come out. The bartender looked at me with an unreadable expression.

“You’re being paranoid, there’s probably nothing wrong with you,” he said flatly. “Why don’t you take another sip, it might help.” he gestured to the glass on the table. I glanced at the drink. It was getting more difficult to focus, with the walls starting to close in on me and the hazy and distorted shapes of my surroundings.

Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid.

The words echoed in my head, and it was deafening. You’re being paranoid. But paranoia couldn’t explain the pain I was experiencing right now, could it? The bartender looked unfazed. I had to get out of the bar and to the hospital. I stumbled off the bar stool, falling to the ground. I could barely move, finding it harder to stay conscious. The door looked so far away, as I dragged myself across the floor, head throbbing and increasingly laboured breaths. Help, I whispered, but it was only in my head. No one could hear. When I finally reached the door, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to a hospital or an ambulance. But why? Why was this happening? I racked my brain for answers, realising that everything I had experienced was all symptoms. Symptoms of poisoning. The bartender and the drink. Crap. I was alone with my thoughts, and knowing the end was coming soon, I could think a little more clearly. Flash. Cyanide. My mind was racing. How much time did I have left? The last time I checked the clock, it was 11:03. By now, I probably only had a few minutes left. Five if I was being optimistic, two if I was being realistic. There was nothing left to do, except wait. I started counting the seconds.

118…117…116…115…114……