Wrong Door

I wake up and get the feeling something is wrong. I scramble for the phone in my pocket. The lock screen reads 12:55am. I’m so tired. My bones ache, and all I want to do is fall back into blissful slumber. But I just can’t shake the feeling that something is not right. My bed… it smells different. It smells like someone else has been in it. And that’s when I hear it… footsteps, coming from out in the kitchen. Now I’m confused… and afraid.

I live alone in a one bedroom apartment. I live a fairly uneventful life. I go to work. I come home. I cook myself a box of mac n cheese. I watch some TV. I go to bed. But today was different. Today sucked the energy right out of me, so when I came home, I have no recollection of anything that happened between me entering the building and hitting the pillows. It was my third overtime shift in a row, and I had just pulled out of the parking lot when SMACK! I heard the kind of heartbreaking whimper that I'd only heard once before in my life - when my dog Benji got hit by an ‘04 Chevy Tahoe. Without thinking, I pulled over to the side and jumped out of my beat-up purple ‘86 Honda Civic - and there it was - thin, mangy, grey Doberman covered in scabs, with short, matted hair, and a trail of blood on the street behind it, flowing from an arm that was bent the wrong way. I watched in a daze as it limped off briskly, as if it - as if he - knew that no one would come to help him. They never have before.

I decided to be a hero to this dog - if you could call it that, since I was technically the one who caused his most recent injury.

I wrapped the poor guy in my work shirt - I wasn’t about to bloody up my favourite Volcom hoodie, and I know they have extras in the office. Amazingly, he didn’t so much as snarl at me, but rather sort of collapsed in my arms. I brought him into the car and held him in my lap as I pondered what to do. It was late, and the vet was closed. So was the local animal shelter. Much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t keep him, as he clearly required more help than I was able to give. I turned the key over at least 3 times to start my little junker car, which didn’t even annoy me anymore, and I drove, carefully, deliberately, knocking on every door within a kilometer radius, looking for anyone in the neighborhood who could take them in. It was an exhausting ordeal, which took hours and a great deal of courage for me, but the feeling of righteousness made up for months of being but a forgettable extra in the deleted scenes of everyone else’s movie. Eventually I found a pleasant lady who worked at the animal shelter. She wrapped up the doberman’s leg properly and offered me tea and snacks. I have no idea what time I went home, but it was pitch black out, and I was Dead. Tired.

But now I’m wide awake. I hear the shuffling of feet. The rustling of clutter all over the floor and the kitchen counters. I hear heavy breathing and it’s getting louder, faster, and closer.

As I curl into a tight little ball on the bed, my brain invents thirteen thousand different characters lurking outside my door. A burglar. A mobster. A serial killer. An alien. A bloodsucking undead monster. The scenes get wilder with each passing second until I realize what a coward I’m being, hiding under the blankets. It’s time to take action. There’s an intruder in MY house. THEY should be scared of ME… right?

I cautiously slide out of the blanket and scour the floor and dresser blindly looking for something - anything - that could be used as a weapon. The footsteps are getting closer and sound almost frantic - or angry. Time is running out! My hands skims across all kinds of things that feel strange and unfamiliar - empty spray bottles, rubber bands, a bag filled with - wait, what’s this - lipstick? Whose stuff is this?? Just when I’m starting to realize something truly horrible, the door flies open, blinding light pours in and a screeching woman’s voice cries out,

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE???”