I’ve often been described as an edgy person. Not in the “Oh, he’s so edgy and hip,” manner, but more in the “Why is he always so on edge?” kind of way. Yeah it’s true. I’m highly strung, stretched thin, on the wire, whatever you wanna call it. So you can see why I’m not one to take risks.
I like order. Plans. Organization. I like everything to be just so, as it were. I’ve got anxiety; clinically proven. Signed and stamped. And a whole list of phobias to go along with it. Fear of fire, fear of flying, loud noises, dogs, water. You name it, I’ve probably been afflicted at some point.
Most often, folks with clinical anxiety have one phobia that tends to be worse than the others. The doctor calls mine anthropophobia. That’s a fancy way of saying I don’t like people. To be more accurate, I hate being around people. It doesn’t matter who. When the phone rings. I walk into the other room. Hold my breath. And wait until it stops. When I have a doctor’s appointment, I’ll stay up at night, weeks in advance, freaking out about being in public and—worse—talking to other humans.
I’ve got a lovely note on my apartment door that kindly informs anyone who wants to disturb me that they can leave the package by the door—but ring the bell, of course. When I’m quite certain they’ve left, I’ll pop my head out to see if any neighbors are lurking. If the hall is empty of well-wishers, I’ll allow one solitary arm to breech the threshold and, with haste, recover my goods.
I live alone, work from home, and enjoy being alone.
So, last Tuesday, when the banging on my door began, the natural thing to do was pretend I wasn’t in. I continued eating my ham and cheese sandwich. If they wanted to leave a note, they were more than welcome.
The knocking persisted.
What in the fuck do they want?
I calmly walked to my bedroom, past the deafening intrusion, and locked myself in. The beating fists grew louder. Perspiration leeched out of every available sweat gland on my body.
“Please help!” A woman’s voice begged from the other side of my apartment door.
It’s a woman. Women are even worse than normal people. They want things from you. There’s a good reason I moved three states away from my mother. Don’t even get me started on that.
I curled up in the corner of my room, tucking my head between my knees.
I’m not home. I’m not home.
That was my mantra for the phone. The delivery man. Everything. Now it was for a desperate woman begging for help.
“Please, you’re the only one home!” Her screams became more and more shrill.
What the hell?
I stomped to the door. Paused. Then poked my head out cautiously. On my doormat—not a welcome mat, because, no, you are not welcome—stood a twitchy blonde with glasses, and fear writhing across her face.
“How do you know I’m home?” I demanded, scratching the stubble on my chin.
She recoiled. Perhaps it was my breath. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t brushed my hair or shaved in donkey’s years.
“I think someone is being killed upstairs! Please, you have to call the police!” she begged.
Oh, God, no!
My heart flopped to one side. The blood drained from my veins. “What did you say?” I managed to whisper.
“Call the police, please. They never come if only one person calls.” She was literally shaking with fear. I know that’s clichéd, oh well.
I should have been concerned about the potential murder taking place on the next floor up, but the fear that gripped me was far greater than any which could be conjured up by possibly homicidal neighbors. The phone and the police.
“No. No. No. I’m sorry. I can’t.” I attempted to close the door. That’s when she got pushy and shoved her hand in the way. Typical.
“Can’t you hear the woman’s screams?” she wailed.
I nodded. Of course I could hear them, but I didn’t see how that had anything to do with me.
“Well, do something!”
This is what I don’t get about women. They think that men are useless and stupid until something like this comes along and then they expect men to do something about it.
Then she did the unexpected. As if caught by the whim of heroinism, she ran up the stairs.
I peeled myself out of my apartment in nothing but boxer shorts and a tomato soup stained Thor shirt.
“Wait, where are you going?” I squealed. My breath caught in my chest. I gripped the doorframe, grounding myself against the potential panic attack about this unplanned trip outside.
“Someone has to do something,” she shouted.
“Not you,” I replied. This was men’s work, after all, right?
Her eyes narrowed. She thrust her hands on her hips. She looked scary. Maybe she could take on a psycho killer. I knew that look; it was the do-what-I-tell-you-to-now look. It has a similar effect to a tractor beam. It forces you to do something against your will. Women are masters at it.
I crawled up the stairs to meet her. My muscles resisted. It was dreadfully strenuous. I peered down at the safety of my apartment sinking below me like the Titanic drifting into the icy depths of the Atlantic.
And me without a lifejacket.
She gripped my hand. I was taken aback by this unwanted physical contact, and stared down in horror at the choke hold her slithering fingers had on my flesh. No time to think about it. She was dragging me up the stairs.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
That’s my other mantra for when things aren’t working out exactly the way I’ve planned them. Original. I know.
We reached the door of the apartment in question but were met by absolute silence. I swear I could hear crickets chirping through the brick walls.
“No one’s there,” I said and attempted to free my fingers from her agonizingly tactile wrist extensions.
“What if he killed her?” she whispered.
“How do you know it’s a guy?”
“Shh,” she hissed. “Listen.”
I pressed my head to the door. The viciously affectionate beast wrapped her long tentacles around my back. So, I did what any perfectly sensible person would do when their personal space has been invaded. I screamed like a little girl.
Perhaps it wasn’t my finest moment.
She jumped. I tripped over her feet. We both fell forward. The door crashed in. She landed on top of me inside the apartment. Her breasts smashed into my face.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. What if she’s lactating?
“Get off!” I squealed and flailed my arms. I knew I was going to suffocate below her well-endowed upper half.
I wriggled my head out from under her like a turtle popping out of its shell…then I saw what had her transfixed. I peered into the living room, and my eyes traced the length of a woman’s naked body from toes to her slashed and bloodied chest. I looked at her face. She was cute—for a dead chick.
Blondie finally reacted by gripping my face on both sides. She leaned her lips so close to mine I thought I’d faint just imagining the exchange of germs taking place.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
Her words wriggled across my skin as I struggled to keep conscious.
I’m not home. I’m not home.
She relented, rolled off me and crawled up against the wall. I gulped in air. My lips were numb. This was not the most optimal time for a panic attack.
A shuffling noise emitted from the living room. Blondie put her feelers to her mouth. I dragged myself up off the floor and huddled near her by the wall.
She pointed one long talon across the room and wagged it up and down. An arm’s length away from me lay a cell phone. My body froze up and my mouth dropped open. She glared at me and nodded in the direction of the phone. I shook my head from side to side with an emphatic, Hell No.
Then just like Spiderman he jumped over the corpse and crouched a few meters from us. By he, I meant the killer. But you already knew that, right?
He held a machete in his hand and wore a black Lucha Libre wrestling mask over his face. God knows why.
Blondie rose up and throttled me by the collar of my shirt. Then she yanked me into the kitchen. Several palms dotted the corners of the room, and a set of French doors let in light from a balcony. It was rather bright and cheerful given the situation.
I was somewhat jealous.
“Why didn’t you take us ‘out of’ the apartment, rather than ‘into’ the apartment?” I said.
She threw her hands up and screamed at me. “Are you retarded?”
The killer lurked closer, standing between us and the exit. He growled. Was he el Chupacabra?
“The porch,” Blondie shouted.
We ran to the double doors. I threw them open and stopped. Rain poured down like a wall of glass.
I make it a point to never go out into the rain.
She squirmed underneath my arm and ran to the railing. The wind blew wildly as my awareness turned to the rooftops, littered with TV receivers.
I’m on the top floor.
My legs went weak.
I heard the killer rush up behind me. I slammed the door in his face. He crashed into the glass and hit the floor. Don’t tell me that was pure luck.
Blondie crawled up onto a planter box. Her wet hair clung to her face.
“Come on,” she shouted back at me.
I pressed my back against the doors and shook my head. “I can’t.” I tried to remember what my therapist said about taking deep breaths.
“Then he’ll kill you.”
I didn’t budge.
She hopped down and strode across the porch toward me. She was seething.
Oh God, she’s going to touch me!
“You’re an idiot.”
She grasped my arm and pulled me up onto the slippery precipice.
“I’m terrified of heights,” I squeaked out as black spots floated in my vision. There was no way I was jumping.
“It’s not that high,” she said.
The killer burst onto the porch. His arms, like swollen pig bellies, rose and fell as he hoovered in as much oxygen as his lumpy frame would allow.
“It’s not?” I cautiously leaned my head forward to take a peek.
She grabbed me by the face, smashing her claws into my eyeballs. “Don’t look. Just jump.”
I didn’t have a choice. She pulled me. Thankfully my feet did the work my brain refused to do.
We crashed through the glass roof of a veranda on the next building over. Blondie landed on top of me. My head softened her fall.
You’re welcome, Blondie.
When I awoke, she was screaming in my face and gesticulating toward the balcony above us. The killer stood on the edge poised to jump.
I lifted myself from the broken glass and held my throbbing head. Blondie led me to the railing. She peered over the terrace. I suppose to sus out whether we should take another blind leap of faith. However, I came to the decision—there was no way I would be jumping again.
I’ll take my chances with the killer, thank you.
Then I heard a sound like a water buffalo screaming in the throes of death’s grip as its wriggling limbs are ripped from its body by a pride of ravenous lions.
Too dramatic?
The killer made his swift descent toward us, his arms and legs flailing. His outstretched fingers missed the railing by inches. We watched his body thud lifeless on the ground three stories down.
Blondie lied. It was really high. Vertigo kicked in. I felt my legs wobble.
She was smiling. Big sloppy tears excreted from her eyes.
“We’re safe,” she exclaimed.
Whatever that meant.
Then she kissed me.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
My vision went black.
