For the past few days, something weird has been happening.
I live in a small one-bedroom apartment in a relatively safe area. It’s not fancy-shmancy like Beverly Hills or some shit like that but it’s my home. I moved down to the busier city area of Indianapolis from Kalamazoo and I can say for the most part, the change has been welcome.
I don’t have to know all of my neighbors intimately, I am far enough away from family and school friends that when we do see each other, we’ve had time to miss one another, actually feel the distance. Back home, I was stagnating and here, I am thriving and able to breathe without the expectations set on me by everyone else who saw me grow up. I’m able to finally be who I want, not who everyone wants me to be.
It’s this sense of freedom and belonging that may have fucked me over. I’ve never felt more independent and badass than I have being on my own for the first time in my life. I get up in the morning, throw my fridge open and drink straight from the carton and there’s no one there to nag me not to. I piss with the door open and no one’s there to shriek at me that it is nasty or unladylike. I drop a bagel bite on the floor? That bad boy is going right in my mouth, floor germs be damned.
I live like a queen, surrounded by my own creature comforts. I watch my own movies and I laugh as loud and as obnoxiously as I can, no friends there to be like, “Ugh, Phoebe, quiet down.”
I am alone and awesome and living my best life.
So when the notes started, I just shrugged and moved on once the initial weirdness subsided.
Walking past my front door as I moved through my morning routine, I catch a small slip of paper on the floor. It looks like something that I could have dropped there but I don’t actually have any paper here. Everything’s automated, baby. I’m full paperless.
“Man in green, do not talk to him. He will pester you to join his co-op.”
Okay…whatever the hell that means. I flip the slip over, brows furrowed but find no further sign of a sender or anything else to clear up what the hell this is doing in my home. I toss it in the trash and put it out of my mind. I need to get going.
I jogged down the stairs and whistled as I walked the three blocks to my bus stop and my good mood carried on until I got to my office building. Outside was a man wearing a green polo, his hair sticking out in all directions and waving flyers in people’s faces.
I cast my eyes down and hurried into the building, catching snippets of his voice as I do so.
“Come on, man, don’t you wanna be part of something bigger? A collective?”
Man in green, pestering people to join his co-op. An uneasy sense traveled up my spine and I laughed to myself when I realized that someone must also live in my building who works here. Maybe they’re on overnights and know that I also commute over here and thought to warn me. That makes way more sense than anything else I could begin to come up with.
I go into work and settle in, enjoying the monotonous nature of being in a call center. Nothing unusual happens and I begin the trek home, enjoying once again that I’m free to eat whatever I want for dinner, no one bugging me to eat healthily or incorporate more things into my diet than frozen pizza in its various forms.
I arrive home, nuke my food and sit in front of the TV to binge more Seinfeld, losing myself in the antics of the gang. Evening turns into night and I shower and climb into bed, blissfully unaware of what the next day was to bring.
My alarm blares, jolting me from my deep sleep and I groan before turning it off. I get up, refusing to open my eyes, trying in vain to cling to what little sleep I can. Coffee is made, breakfast consumed in the form of a toaster strudel and I am almost out the door when I notice yet another note.
“Mugger on 5th. Do not go into office usual way.”
My blood runs cold and I am half-tempted to call in sick, because this now can’t be a well-meaning colleague. This is different and I don’t want to know how they have this info. I waffle for a bit, trying to figure out what I should do about this before adopting a false bravado and laughing off my fear. My laughter does not convince me that I shouldn’t be afraid. But hey, I did it. I moved here and I am kicking ass and nothing is going to stop me.
My whistle isn’t as jaunty and I watch my back until I get to the usual fork that I would always go right at to get to my office. I could go left and add ten minutes onto the trip. I hesitate before going left. The extra ten minutes gives me more time to think and quite frankly, I wish it didn’t. I ruminate on how stupid I feel, being scared of a piece of paper. I’m kicking myself in the elevator and the long hallway to my department before arriving at my cubicle.
One of my work friends, not important enough to speak to outside of work but good enough to chit-chat about meaningless bullshit with, comes running up to my desk. He’s out of breath and his face is red like he’s been exercising and I hope that he’s not here to discuss some new fitness regimen. I open my mouth to circumvent this when he blurts out, “Phoebe, outside. Woman from third floor. Vanessa, I think. Some man just mugged her and ended up shooting her in the abdomen. She’s going to the hospital right now, they’re worried she’s not gonna make it.”
My heart stops. I stammer out a breath, asking him when and where and why.
“Off of Fifth. She was walking from the bus stop, her husband couldn’t bring her in today so she had to hoof it. Happened about thirty minutes ago. Gossip is they’re sending us home for the day, so…silver linings, I guess?”
My mouth drops in disbelief, both at the likelihood that the note was right and at the idea that Vanessa possibly dying could have any silver lining but Brian shrugs and walks away. He ends up being right and I am on my way back home, having to take the way around again which is fine by me. I would hate to see any sign of a possible attack that could have been meant for me.
Once home, I survey my surroundings and the fear that has been growing inside my stomach is hard and painful. I have never felt unsafe in my home and now I feel watched as I deadbolt the second lock my mother insisted I get when she learned that I would not be taking a roommate.
I try to go through my normal routine but for once, my Chef Boyardee Ravioli tastes bland. It’s like sand in my mouth and I jump at every sound in the normally busy hallway. My neighbors come home and I nearly shriek when I hear them kick the door shut behind them.
It’s finally bedtime and I huddle down in my blankets, considering calling my mom and telling her about my close call, forgoing the mention of the note but I don’t. I can’t let her know that I’m afraid or she would make the drive down and start packing my shit herself.
I toss and turn, unable to find solace in the quiet as I normally can. My ears strain to catch any noise and I have the idea around 3AM to try and catch who is leaving these notes. I usually wake for work around 7AM so it has to be sometime soon, doesn’t it?
Luck is on my side and after only 2 hours of ceaseless watching, another paper is now inside. I bolt to the door and throw it open, panting and on the verge of a panic attack. No one is there. I ripped the door open not even a minute after the slip appeared, how the hell are they gone?
I turn the paper over and it reads, “Stay home.”
I wait until 6am to call into work. I stammer out vague excuses of illness, cramps, diarrhea and my manager’s voice on the other end shushes me and tells me that he is fine with this, the office is running on skeleton crew anyway, didn’t I check my emails? I cough instead of answering and he wishes me well before hanging up.
I clamp my curtains together and shove a towel under my door for the day. I don’t want anymore notes. Checking my work email tells me that the office is skeleton crew only until Monday at the earliest but I may be contacted for an interview if the police think that I saw anything on the way in. I close my laptop and go back into the womb of my blankets, wanting to sleep until Monday but I can’t. I manage a lazy midmorning nap and wake up around dinner time to the sounds of my neighbors arriving home, all of them blissfully unaware of the terror that I am currently in.
I eat dinner mechanically in front of my TV, wanting to pretend anything is fine. All I have to eat is a PB&J. Today is normally a grocery day after work but…Well.
Screaming and crying rings out from the parking lot across from my window. I squeeze my eyes shut before forcing myself to open them and see what is happening.
A car, overturned in the lot and a woman is shrieking that her husband is still inside. I vaguely recognize her as my neighbor to my right and I gasp and clasp my hand over my mouth as the car begins to catch fire. She’s being held back by someone, struggling as if she going to throw herself back into the car and the rank smell of burning gasoline and metal is permeating my nose. I refuse to believe this is what the note was referring to. I don’t drive. This was an accident incurred by something that never could have been for me. Until I see him. A man, standing in the street, looking directly at my second floor window. I stifle a scream and drop down to the floor. Tears gather in my eyes and I bite my palm to keep from screaming. What is this? How could this have been me? I don’t drive! Notes aren’t omniscient and I don’t go outside this late at night! I chastise myself, what happened to the girl who knew how to take care of herself? Who didn’t listen to a fucking piece of paper? I reassemble myself, feeling like I haven’t breathed normally in hours when a knock at the door makes me shriek and I am back down in my pit of terror that I was just beginning to crawl out of.
I hazard a small look in the peephole where a uniformed officer is standing patiently. I gently open the door and mumble, “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am but I was wondering if you had any information on the accident that just occurred outside. There’s other officers securing the scene and I wanted to see if you saw what caused the road rage incident.” His slow drawl tells me he’s from somewhere else, definitely not the North. He waits expectantly for an answer but all I can think is, “Road rage?”
I must say this out loud because he nods and offers, “A neighbor of yours swears they saw the woman flip off the other driver before he rammed into their car. I really wish people would be more careful with this kinda attitude on the road. Now, I’m not blamin’ the victim, but there’s all kinds out there.”
The officer stays for a few more minutes, gathering the little info I have and my contact details before leaving.
He rammed into them because she flipped him off. How many times have I been hooted and honked at while walking home from the store and responded by flipping the bird back at the driver? Prior to this, I felt invincible and like my bad bitch aura kept these creeps away but…if someone just rammed a car with such force that they flipped over, the driver unable to escape…what would have happened to me? A pedestrian without the tons of metal to cover me?
“Stop it, Phoebe!” I yell at myself in my head, “Stop making this fit into a box! This. Is not. Related.”
I go to bed hours early and silently cry into my blankets. I whisper small prayers to anyone listening to please stop this and let me be in peace before I fall into a restless sleep, managing maybe an hour spread over the night.
Which brings me to today.
I told myself that I would go out today, fuck whoever is out there and seek help. Why I didn’t mention this or the man from the night before to the officer, I don’t know but I am tired of being scared. My false bravado is back and I am about to make my way into my living room before I stop and scream, hysterically crying and catapulting back under my covers where I am now writing this.
When I went to open the door, I felt a small crunch and looked down. There on my bedroom floor, looking like it had been shoved between the door and the carpet was a note that reads:
“Don’t leave your room.”