A Knock At The Door

For a while now, it had knocked at my door. Asking for its room key. But I couldn't see its name on the list. As far as I knew, it hadn't rented out a room before. So, I sent it on its way. Told it to try the hotel down the street. I'd heard lots of its friends had stayed there for a night or two.

It would leave after that.

I'd have a little while where I rented out rooms to others. OCD had a running tab. Anxiety liked to try out different rooms every visit. Chronic illness always used the lift to its room. Came late at night or early in the morning. During a meeting or before an event. Never when it said it would arrive.

But it always came back. Insistent, it had a room. One with its name on. With the curtains drawn and the TV on standby. It said it had been before. I asked it to name the room. It named one. Third from the back and just past the flickering light with the dead bug inside. I asked it for more. It said it stayed in the room with the sticky door. The one you had to kick, in just the right spot for it to open. The one that had more scrunched up tissues than wooden floor. The one where empty bowls of food were the knick-knacks of choice. Where half finished work laid the table. Where tablets on the nightstand were for swallowing, not scrolling.

I told it I'd never rented out that room. That it was empty, maybe only a bed or boxes inside. It told me to look again. That it always put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. So maybe I just hadn't been inside in a while. I told it that that was ridiculous. I knew every room. It was my hotel. It told me to look again. Really look.

I walked with it to the third floor. Abandoned the front desk. Let the others come as they pleased. We didn't chat. Just walked in silence. It was heavily laden. Carrying lots of bags, so went slower. I didn't slow down to let it catch up. Just walked on and let it follow. We got to the third floor, and I led it to the third from the end. It said its name was on the door. But only depression was written there. I told it that that wasn't possible. That room had never had a name. It said it was newer than the others. That it had arrived a couple of years ago. Maybe more. It hadn't made a fuss when it arrived. Just helped itself to a key and chose a room. The others said I wouldn't mind. There was always room for one more. It was a squeeze, but they'd managed. Had changed their address to mine. Declined phone calls to my number. Put the key back before I noticed.

I asked it how it knew the others. They were on different floors. It said they had led it here. Left messages saying there was free room and board. That I wouldn't notice if it just slipped in the back door.

I couldn't argue. OCD had moved in in the same way. Taken a whole floor of the hotel. Made its mark before I had finished writing down its name.

Anxiety had come more quietly. Slipped in in my third year here. Tried not to take up space. Always found hovering behind every corner. Like a ghost that haunted the place.

Chronic illness had come with amnesia. We had learned its name together. But it had come with a vengeance. A voice we could all hear, whichever floor we were on.

I said that it couldn't stay. I didn't have room. It said it had already been here for two years and was at home now. It had managed fine without me. But now I knew it was here. I couldn't manage four rooms. It said it could handle itself.

I opened its door. I could see it was struggling with its bags. Seeing the darkness, I reached for the light. It told me not to bother. It had tried before, but it never worked. I asked it why it had been here for so long and never told me. Had never come to the front desk and told me its name. It said it didn't want me to know. Knew I would want it out if I had known.

I told it that that was true. That I wanted it out now.

But we both knew it had a while yet. It was going to stay a little longer. Or a lot. Neither of us could set a date.

I asked it why now? Why had it finally told me it was staying here? It could have gone on staying here without me knowing.

It said it was getting too risky. The others had warned it that I would realise eventually. That it was better if it told me.

For me or for it, I asked.

It said the others hadn't said.

Is your name on the door in pencil? I asked it.

No. It's in permanent marker.

I told it I'd call the cleaner.