DEADLY SOLITUDE

A short story

Half the time I am trying to suppress a scream, my pillow knows. I’m blinking away tears not worth shedding, they sting. I want to love living, perhaps for those rare moments of unexpected ecstasy. I don’t exactly know how I got here, all I know is a lot of things or maybe everything in my life is not as I would prefer them to be. I am weak, and I feel myself deteriorating every single passing moment. I am losing my mind. I have pushed the last person who was willing to tolerate me away and maybe for good. I am better alone. Maybe knowing that I will not have any chance to drag anybody else down with me is the thing that I like most about my precious deadly solitude. I have been in quarantine, self-inflicted for personal reasons. Everybody who has seen me last is convinced that I am healthy and well thanks to masks and make-up. The thing they don’t know is I am standing at the edge.

I am intoxicated which is making me laugh out loud in the place of what I really want to do. Scream. It’s like a crawling feeling in my chest, one I wish I could scratch away but out of reach so the only thing that has, in the past remedied it even for a moment is a scream. I want to scream out loud but that may disturb the neighbors, one in particular. I haven’t had the chance to learn his name but every time I bump into him in the corridor, he looks at me like he knows my secrets, like he has heard the screams and knows why I scream.

 “I am okay, I am okay, I am okay.”

My heart is racing, I am balancing myself on the wall trying to resist the urge to break something. I’ve never allowed myself to break anything, thanks to the mantra ‘I am okay’ that saves me. I know, people who are okay don’t have to sing a mantra to make them okay, but it helps. Don’t pity me, I am okay. The music is loud enough to keep my laments confined to this space, perhaps if I start dancing it will help, so I start dancing, a step off the beat. The twirls and movements are really just mixing the alcohol with my blood faster than it should, I feel dizzy. There’s a crawling sensation in my chest, I can’t avoid it. I pick up a cushion from my messy couch and swiftly hold it against my face and scream!

I resign myself to the couch, tired. There’s an extra film in my eyes. I’m tempted to box the walls, see some blood, and feel a little pain, perhaps I would be okay. I don’t know where my phone is, who would I call anyway? A burp escapes my throat it smells like alcohol, and I grimace in disgust. I sit back and look at my surroundings. This place is messy. I am messy. I drag myself to the bedroom, I haven’t made the bed today, which is good because I don’t have the energy. And there is my phone, no missed calls, no texts, no social notifications. Oh wait, I deleted all my social media handles. I am a coward, I couldn’t stand seeing one more happy face when I am this miserable and as far as missed calls are concerned, I have made it clear that I am nobody’s friend and nobody’s girlfriend. He left me, finally. Oh, don’t feel sorry for me, this is what I wanted. I fall face down and just like that, I am drifting. I’ve been falling asleep this way for days, it’s really a good way to fall asleep. No analytical thinking, your mind just shuts up as soon as you shut your eyes. No voices saying you have nothing and no one, you aren’t going anywhere in life or making any difference, you aren’t…I can’t hold on to my consciousness…

I wake up across the bed, yup, It’s normal now, it’s morning. No, I am not late for work, I don’t have a job, no I do. What is wrong with me? What day is it?  It’s Sunday. I have a terrible headache, it’s like I’ve hit my head on a wall. I drag myself to the bathroom, my pee is a dark yellow, disgusting, and it smells like alcohol. That does not look healthy. My reflection on the cabinet mirror shows dark circles and messy hair like I’m some witch. I wish I was, I would simply change my life. I open the cabinet and reach for a sachet of grandpa powder. I pour it into my mouth and drink water with my hand from the sink. Rising from the sink I hit the back of my head on the cabinet door. “Ouch.” Why do I always do this? I hear my phone beep as I leave the bathroom, I go into the bedroom, it’s a text from Sade. ‘Can we meet for lunch today?’

I think about it, I don’t want company, I’ve been avoiding her for a month now. ‘hey, I am out of town. Raincheck?’ I think by now she knows I am lying. I throw my phone back on my unmade bed and drag myself to the kitchen. The fridge is empty, it looks like if I want to eat, I must go out there, not today. The cereal will have to save the day. I sit in front of a TV, at some point I fall asleep and by the time I wake up, it’s 6:30 pm, the day just went by like that. I need some air, I go to the window, but I feel it’s not enough and so I decide to leave my apartment and stand outside. It’s been three days since I’ve been out here. The air is fresh, and my mind is leaving me, this is what I hate about being sober, you think about everything you shouldn’t be thinking about. My thoughts are disturbed by sirens and the police, and the building manager led by a lady who looks to have been crying.

 “His phone rings in there I swear,” she says as they pass me.

They stop at my neighbor’s apartment. I am intrigued, something must be wrong. They knock, I want to go back inside before they involve me, but I also want to see what happens next. The crying lady looks at me, please don’t come back here, look away, go inside. She walks slowly to me.

“Hi, I’m Lasi, have you by any chance seen my brother? He lives here, and I haven’t heard from him in three days, he has not been at work or anywhere and I think I hear his phone in there.”

I don’t remember the last time I’d seen him, he was always quiet, with the type of deportment that said, don’t talk to me but I see you. Only once did I notice a little smile on his lips or maybe I imagined it.

“No, I haven’t seen him, I’m sorry,” I say.

She looks at me like she does not believe me, or is she seeing through my darkness, is she seeing the mess in my head? She nods and then one of the police officers calls her name.

“Do you give us permission to break in?”

“Yes, please.”

The officer nods to the building manager, and he rummages through a bunch of keys. Wait, does he have a key for every apartment? I don’t know how I feel about that but maybe it’s a good thing, if I ever die in there, at least they will be able to get to my body. But who would report me missing? I’ve pushed everybody away, I’m missing while I am alive, if I go missing for real no one will know. They get in and shortly there’s a scream, Lasi runs out and throws up. She is crying.

She sits next to her vomit and sobs uncontrollably. I don’t know what to do. Thank God the building manager follows to comfort her, I don’t know whether to go in or stay here.

“What happened?” I hear myself ask, not sure if I want to know but he is my neighbor. Nobody answers me. The police officers step out, one is on the phone. “There’s been a suicide in…” I don’t hear anything else. I rush into my apartment, shut my door, and lean on it. I can’t breathe.

“You are okay, you are okay, you are okay,” I say to myself out of breath.

I gain control of my breathing and drag myself to the couch. He’s dead. What happened? Suicide. He killed himself, why? I remember seeing him, he looked at me like he knew my secrets, I am starting to think maybe he saw himself in me, he knew he and I were alike. I feel sad for his sister, death has a way of imprisoning the living when it frees the dead, assuming they are free at all. I walk to the bathroom, there are too many movements outside, but my thoughts are drowning in envy for my neighbor’s courage, he had done the thing I’ve been afraid to do for a long time. The fear of the unknown that has kept me from taking chances in this life has been forming barricades between me and death. I keep thinking what if I still suffer in death, what if it’s the same? Maybe I should stop being a coward, my neighbor did it, he is free. Maybe. But he is definitely free of this world, this world that knows no boundaries, this world that violates you in your innocence, the world where the people you trust can easily turn into your enemies, the world where survival depends on how much of your sanity you are willing to sacrifice. Nothing bad has happened to me, don’t feel sorry for me, I just don’t fit. I don’t know who I am. I fall asleep on the couch thinking I need my neighbor’s courage.

There’s a knock on my door, I open and it’s him, my neighbor. Is he not supposed to be dead? I never got the story, I never asked who died.

“I thought…wait, what happened in your apartment?”

“Let’s not talk about that please, I can’t be there. Can I come in?”

I let him in, he looks shaken, and hollow. Empty, maybe I see it because I am the same. He sits down. We’ve never had a conversation before, I don’t even know his name, I sit a little far from him.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask.

He shakes his head in decline and then there is silence. It’s becoming awkward, I am not good with company. He is scanning my apartment, I wasn’t expecting company, he cannot judge me, he has no right. He leans back.

“Maya,” he whispers.

He knows my name, how the hell does he know my name?

“Yes, I do know your name, I’m Lance,” he says.

Apparently, he reads minds too, he scares me a little, there is something off about him, but I can’t tell what it is.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lance,” I say.

He turns and smiles, he has a gorgeous smile, but there is so much sadness in his eyes.

“Allow me to be bluntly honest with you,” he says and looks at me, I nod. What is going on? “I see you; you are suffering, you are in pain without a notable source, you feel empty, and the emptiness is tearing you apart.”

“Are you some kind of prophet or something?” I chuckle. I feel transparent, I feel like my privacy has just been drastically violated. He makes me nervous.

“I am not a prophet; you have certain symptoms I’ve seen.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I see you, Maya, and these walls aren’t that thick.”

I knew this guy knew my secrets. I need to be alone right now, who the hell does he think he is?

“I’m sorry but you need to go.” I cross my hands against my chest and look away.

He stands up and looks down at me, I don’t look at him, I can’t look at him. I see his hand extended to me, when I look up, he has a tender smile on his face.

“Come on, take my hand,” he says.

I look into his eyes a moment too long and then take his hand. As soon as my hand touches his he pulls me into a tight hug. I don’t protest. He is warm and comfortable and for whatever reason, I start crying. He holds me tighter, and now I am praying he does not let me go too soon. I hadn’t known I needed this, a shoulder to cry on for no reason. Why am I crying?

“Don’t hold it in, tell someone,” he whispers into my ear.

“I don’t know what to tell, I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“A professional can help you find out.”

I get off his embrace and I can’t look at him, I wipe my eyes, I can feel him looking at me, but I don’t detect any judgment in his gaze. This must be something to do with the tragedy that happened in his apartment, who died there? I am afraid to ask.

“Maya.” His voice startles me.

I look up at him, he is quite tall.

“Finding yourself can be a daunting journey and without support, it’s easy to get lost. There is no compass, but you must be brave enough to try everything until you find yourself. Stop being afraid to fail, stop running from everything, stop belittling yourself, stop poisoning your mind, and stop pushing people away with the fear that they may leave you. they left you, your parents, but they didn’t take anything from who you are.”

What the hell!

“How the hell do you know that?”

I thought I didn’t know how I felt and why I felt the way I felt, and I thought no one was going to know, but here is a guy I barely know, stripping me naked and revealing things I have worked so hard to bury deep about myself. He produces a black card and hands it to me.

“Contact her, she will help you. I should have let her help me. Wake up and live your life… for you.”

I wake up, Jesus that was a dream. I’ve never had a dream so real. It must be PTSD. It’s midnight. I go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea and go to bed. I can’t stop thinking about him. The hug felt so real. He felt too real. How was that just a dream? I don’t know how I fell asleep, but it is morning when I wake up again. The first thing I do is shrug a black knee-length dress on, brush my teeth and head downstairs to Mr. E, the security guard, to find out what happened to my neighbor.

“He hung himself on a curtain rail, such a tragedy. His name was Lance, such a quiet good guy, I should have seen something was wrong.”

Lance, that was the name he told me in the dream, that is weird. I must have heard it from his sister.

“You couldn’t have possibly seen that Mr. E.”

I pat his arm and walk back, but while I wait for the elevator, I hear him call my name. I look at him over my shoulder, he looks genuinely hurt and maybe even more concerned than he should be.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I give him a reassuring smile and a curt nod. I am good at pretending. My entire life I’ve had to pretend like my parents didn’t dump me with a grandmother who never wanted me. Like she didn’t die and leave me alone at twelve, waiting with hope for my mother to show up for her funeral and take me with her. A wait that has lasted until this moment, a wait that may last forever. I’ve had to pretend like I didn’t raise myself, violated in my innocence by a stranger meant to help me. Like I’ve known a mother’s love. Like I know myself. I am okay.

The elevator hauls me to my apartment. It feels weird living next to someone who killed himself. The entire corridor smells of death and is as empty and silent as a graveyard. It has always been the thing I love about this floor, the quiet emptiness like nobody lives here but me, but not today.  The first thing I see as soon as I enter my apartment is a little black card on my coffee table, the same one Lance gave me in the dream. I feel chills all over my body, and the little hairs at the back of my neck are standing rigid. I can just feel his presence in here. He’s been here, that was not a dream. I reach for it, and it reads, Dr. Lara Gumede. Psychologist, specializing in depression, trauma, and PTSD. I go into every room searching for him, but there is nobody here. He is dead. But he came to save me. I look at the card for too long, unable to comprehend what this means. Why would he want to save me when he didn’t save himself?

Perhaps he found himself in the solitude of death and discovered there is nothing there, or worse, the struggle continues. Perhaps he is saving me from eternal suffering, inescapable in the chains of death. He thinks I need help. Maybe for once, I should listen. Even the dead thinks I need help.

End