“It’s the loneliest feeling in the world to find yourself standing up when everyone else is sitting down. To have everybody look at you and say, “What’s the matter with her?” I know what it feels like. Walking down an empty street, listening to the sound of your own footsteps. Shutters closed, blinds drawn, doors locked against you. And you aren’t sure whether you’re walking toward something, or if you’re just walking away.”
-Henry Drummond (Inherit the wind)
I walked past the old neighborhood, the street felt like a hallway and each house a different classroom in some big, Victorian-style, out-of-my-league school. The cigarette smoke was keeping me warm, I could feel the hotness of my blood surging inside my skin; perhaps an aftermath of alcohol. The gravel crunched under my weight, I always found it soothing. The feel and sound of rocks crunching had this effect on me, like watching a big glob of honey sink into itself and spread. The stars looked like they were tied to the sky with fragile threads, that’d break anytime now. It’d be fun to see them crash into the earth.
One house and then the other; like beads in a string. I imagined what the people were doing on the other side of the wall. The Mr. and Mrs. would probably be wine-drunk at this hour, the kids pretending to be asleep. The eldest son at house 164 was flicking through his stash of Playboy, the room was dark so he had a flashlight on. The little girl hiding under her white linen bed sheet, trying so hard to sleep. She couldn’t fall asleep even if she wanted to, in fact she never felt more awake in her life, oh how love hits all of us the same.
Sometimes, I wish I could just walk into a random house and sleep in a spare bedroom. I wouldn’t steal anything; I’d be quiet and as invisible as I already am. No drama, the guardians wouldn’t even need to call the cops, all I wanted was to sleep in good linen for once. When I walked in, no one would say a word or ask any of those “I care about you so I’m asking you this” type of phony questions. Mr. and Mrs. Whatever would just shrug and tell me to do whatever I feel like. I’d walk into the kitchen, get some wine from the liquor cabinet and treat myself to some vintage goodness. I’d walk barefoot around the patio and listen to the hum of nighttime. Sitting by the edge of the pool, the water rippling at my ankles, I take a sip and then another. The alcohol makes my senses tingle; I take my feet out of the water and walk back inside. Mr. and Mrs. Whatever don’t like me wandering about this late, so I go to my room. It’s a compact room with crème walls, I like it. It has a soft, well made bed and an attic window where I have my late night smoke.
I lay in my bed like I always do. My face towards the ceiling, I was staring at nothing. I couldn’t sleep, I tried closing my eyes, turning and tossing and counting…nothing ever worked. I sit back up, my frizzy tresses sticking to my head like limp cobwebs. The blood was surging again; I could feel it circulating in my ears. The old heart vigorously pouncing in anger. I walked out of the house that night and never returned. I was starting to get bored of it all, everything was such a drag. I resumed my walk down the street. All the houses looked so bleak. The attic windows looked like gloomy eyes and the grills on the doors, like frowns. A stage lined with sad sock puppets…that’s what it was; this neighborhood and my life. I knew I couldn’t live in any of them; I’d suffocate if I had to live the same day too many times.
I could do up to four houses in a night. I knocked at another door. The lights flicked up and someone called out, “Who is it?” I didn’t know who I was either, how do you answer questions like that? The voice on the inner side rang louder the second time. “It’s me.” I said. The door creaked open and a man in his late forties slouched behind it. A bad buzz cut and a pot belly, he was ugly. He looks like the kind of man who wouldn’t know what hunger is even if it bit him in his privileged arse. I frown a little, but it’s so cold out here.
“Can I come in?” I ask, my voice drowsy as ever.
He didn’t say anything, a few seconds passed in debated silence. He gave up after some time and stepped aside, gesturing me in. There are pictures strung up on his walls, the house feels like it was recently refurbished. The wall paint is new and the furniture is expensive rosewood but still, it felt bland. I traced my fingertips along the surface of the dining table, large and expensive looking. The silverware was laden out, I wonder why? It felt cold. I slipped in a butter knife into my sleeve in a quick and deft movement. I keep tokens.
“I think I’ll just go up to my room.” I say, the man studies my face and then gives up. I walk into the room, it smelt of turpentine. I plopped on the bed and for the first time, slumber hit me. Sleep is like a river, and I’m the stupid fish that likes swimming in the undertow. Like a river, sleep has different courses that run at different paces in different directions.
The darkness was palpable; the back of my neck hurt. I tossed in my sleep from side to side, it was getting warmer. The air suddenly felt denser and I felt it for the first time. The first time and yet, I’d known this sensation like it was stemming from deep within my cortex. The fine lines of muscle in my thighs tightened, as his deft fingers circulated over them, in light strokes. My eyes were closed, but I couldn’t have felt more alert. I did nothing; just lay there, limp and dead. The pad of his thumb crawled higher until it was where, he wanted it to be. A flick and it felt like he’d ignited a fire inside of me and thrown a cylinder of kerosene all over my body.
My eyes shot open. Alarm. Red thoughts. Blood-lust. How dare he? I slipped the knife out and hammered it into his eye ball, a stream of fresh blood spurted right out. He howled. Better. I bit hard on his biceps, the tang of his blood felt like a metallic zing on my tongue. Deeper. My teeth sank lower into his flesh. Still screaming. Wriggling and wanting to be freed. So I freed him. There was a tug of war, of abuses and assault. Minutes passed. I was still standing. He wasn’t.
I walked out that day. The wind hit me hard, drumming against my chest; slapping it and disintegrating. The night sky hung low, so I closed my eyes and opened them again. One house and then the next. My pace quickened in the dark, as I ran in search for home.
