Apartment 401

“Wake up!” my mind tells me, as I am partially paralyzed by last night’s activities. The Dream realm keeps pulling at my ankles, as my eyes use every ounce of its strength to open. Even my cheeks, nose and the muscles around my eyelids lend a hand towards the effort. I silently root for them to open, as the struggle to wake is my toughest opponent today so far.

I may not always know when I’m dreaming. There is no question that I know I’m awake, my body just hasn’t received the memo. With thoughts of building relationships with my snooze button, I feel the grasp of instincts snatch my slipping hands. “Okay, open my eyes,” I forcefully contemplate. Little by little, they start to unwind. Just one eye. My right eyelid starts to fights free from its rigor mortis state. Then my left joins the struggle. Finally passing the point where dreams genuflect to reality, and a realization that responsibilities are calling for attention.

The formally shaggy bedroom carpet, now pressed to a consistent density, tickles the bottom of my feet. I question why I am even bothering to wake up this early Saturday morning. I wonder what time it is, as the blinds can only contain part of the July weekend sunlight. Trapped in the corner of my bedroom, the sunrise burns the sky orange; leaking into the walls and floor. Its 6:14 a.m., just one minute before my first alarm is set to go off. Six-fifteen a.m., six-thirty, six-forty-five, and six-everything, as the snooze on my alarm sometimes needs assistance. “Might as well turn the alarms off,” something tells me, as the alarm timely screams for me to wake up once I reach for it.

Still considering going back to sleep, I know I have to give a tutorial lesson in an hour. Rescheduling should not be a problem, and her parents can go to hell if they don’t like it. I know they don’t like me. I’m not sure I’m even able to function well today anyways. Maybe, just one more drink to get all the kinks out. Maybe just one more smoke to alert my senses.

“Make your bed,” I tell myself, as I move the disheveled blanket to appear folded, while straightening the pillows and sheets. I exited bedroom for some much needed coffee. In the kitchen, I am met with half-finished bottle of tequila still sitting on the island, mourning its empty sibling, and looking for me to end its pain. No more tequila I thought. Well, maybe just one shot, and maybe a little puff of something to influence my motivation. I need something to help me get through today. That’s exactly what I needed, one shot and one puff.

The tequila’s burn tickled the back of my throat; sliding down obnoxiously, warming my spirit. “Not too bad,” I say out loud. I wasn’t just talking to myself. Rather it was a declaration to the universe, that I was okay. In fact, maybe it was the universe itself talking. Let’s try another, I thought, but not too much, I have to be in control. The finish of the tequila was amazing, pared with herbal smoke and a hint of realization that I am ever so slowly leaving my sobriety state.

Shit, I forgot, I have to tutor a student today. I definitely can’t go now. The intensity of the old stench on my breath from last night’s activities seeks comfort in the new libations. I then poured another one of its acquaintance down my throat, as I exhaled the held smoke from the previous toke.

As I attempted to reschedule, I wash it down with another drink. “Hey Julianne,” I texted, “I’m not going to be able to make it to our lesson today, can we reschedule?” Shoot, I haven’t taken my medication yet. “What the hell do the doctors know anyways,” I wash down with more tequila and the opaque fog that enters my lungs.

“Ring…” Shit, she is calling me! I can’t talk with her right now. My mind is not clear. “Hey Julianne,” I quickly reply after declining her call, “ I can’t talk right now, I will call you later.” Yeah later, like tomorrow, as the last measure of the agave nectar burns lusciously down my throat. “Where is that other bottle?” Not sure why I am asking myself, I know exactly where they all are. Where all my spirits rest, in the cherry wood cabinet, just above the fridge.

I pour a little more than usual in a tall glass, as shots are just not doing it for me right now. I puffed again on the abandoned blunt left on the ashtray from the other night. I take a puff, and wash it down again with a drink. I feel much better now. Time to get some shit done. “Ding Dong….”

Shit, who the heck is at my door? “Ding Dong,” I’m not expecting anyone here? Can the neighbors smell the smoke? Was I being too loud? Oh God, they know I’m high. Julianna did this. That little bitch knows I’m high. “Knock, Knock, knock…” I’m in the shower for all they know. Something is telling me not to open that door. “Then just look through the peep hole,” I tell myself. “Are you crazy?” I reconsider, as they will see the light blocked from the peep hole outside, and know I’m home. Just wait, do not approach that door. “Knock, knock, knock…”

How long has it been, I ponder. Although, it’s probably only been about fifteen minutes, it seems like five hours. Maybe, they are gone. They had to have left already. “Do I peek?” I ask myself. “Do I look outside?” I look under the door, in a failed attempt to see if there is enough space to see feet. Okay, I have to look out the peep hole, I have to see if they are still there. How long should I wait? I know they are still watching. Something tells me that they might have cameras in the vents. Who are they? Why did they knock at my door? "It's the neighbors." Okay, I’m going to look. Okay, maybe I’m not going to look. Yes, go look damn it.

It felt like I had been talking and second guessing myself for hours. However, it probably had only been fifteen long minutes. I look out the peephole, and I see nothing, as they must have left. "Close call," I think to myself, as I see the warmth of the July afternoon dance freely outside, while I seek refuge in my apartment. Wait, what is this? I look down the peephole, closer towards the base of the door, and barely within sight. It’s the top left corner of a package. A box, not big enough to fit a human body, however big enough to fit someone’s pet. Wrapped in a brown paper, decorated with illegible writing.

I look around the area of the peephole again. I don’t see anyone, however there is a corner with shrubbery I cannot see. An advantage point for any ambush. He may still be out there. They know I’m high, they know I’m here. I can’t open this door, but “what’s in the box?” I can’t just leave it out there. What if it’s a bomb?

“Okay, it’s not a bomb, get a hold of yourself, “ I sigh. “But what if it is,” I continue to argue as time may be of the essence in this situation. I should call the police I thought, and quickly reach for my phone. 9-1-1, I press, as the questions raced through my brain as to what was in that brown paper box? Where did it come from? “This is 9-1-1, what is your emergency?” I hang up.

I can’t have the police over here, what am I thinking? Images of helicopters, drug dogs and firearms race through my mind. With lips meeting an empty glass, I look down almost cross-eyed to see what the delay was. Discarding the glass, I reach for the whole bottle. I then notice that it was being comforted by two bottles. I am not sure where the other empty companion came from, as now I see three. Three empty bottles? Where did that bottle come from? Well, thankfully I have more.

“Ring!” A sharp jolt races up my spine, as I panic to I shut the ringer off. Did anybody hear that, I wondered? “Ding, Dong.” Someone’s at the door? They know I’m in here. They found me. Shit, what am I going to do? “Ding Dong.” Wait, who found me? My neighbors, they gave me up. “Knock, Knock, Knock.” Come on get a hold of yourself, they will go away. “Ring, Ring.” They don’t even know you are here. “knock, Knock, Knock.” “Oh, my God, just go away,” I scream at the top of my lungs in my mind. I hold my breath as if in some way that would speed up time. Please, just go away.

Silence has arrived with comfort like a warm blanket nestling my anxieties, and allowing me to deal with my situation at a manageable pace. So I have to realize, they are coming to get me. How am I going to get out of here? The brown paper box should have at least a clue. I’ll Just open the door, grab it and quickly get back. I just have to think of the right time. Time? What time is it I wonder? It wasn’t that long ago that I woke up, why is it dark outside? I need to stay focus, and get that box. Where is that blunt?

No sooner than when I feel the coldness of the metal door handle run up my palms, I jumped back, startled by a “Knock, knock, knock.” Like touching a live wire, electric pulses shot up my spine. "I hope I didn’t move that door handle," I think in a paralyzing manner. “Knock, Knock, Knock, Mr. Johnson, this is the county sheriff’s department, can you please open your door.

They know my name! They know that I’m home, they found me. “Knock, knock, knock,” they continued. I wonder if they saw the shadow from underneath the door, as I place a towel on the base of the door to conceal any light and shadows. I wait. They still don’t know I’m home. Good, I think they left. Still I have to wait.

Maybe I can just open the door and read what the box says. I could possibly even reach it from within my door. I look out the peephole one more time. The glare from the bright sunlight stung, as my eyes weren’t quite adjusted. I get down on the floor. Then I reach up and slowly turning the cold handle, while slightly pull it open from my knees. Adjusting my eyesight to the sting of sunshine, the view of the box is being obstructed. Obstructed by big military style boots. I look up the uniform pants and shirt to see a badge and a gun. Shit, they got me.

“Mr. Johnson, it so good to see you sir,” the deputy sheriff makes his introductions. “Why don’t you stand up so we can talk properly,” instructs the deputy. Standing there paralyzed by the glare of the deputy’s authority, the deputy continues to explain. “You see Mr. Johnson, your neighbors here saw this box out here. They were concerned when it had been sitting there for a few days.” “So we got a call for a wellness check to see if you were ok.” “Glad I saw you on our first visit.” “You look like you could use some rest.” The deputy then lowers his level and picks up the box, with a big black stamp that reads: Return to sender. “Here is your package Mr. Johnson.”