don't make me go outside

The front door clicks. My sister has stopped calling goodbye. I creak onto my side, but the sparrows are back. Their chirps reverberate against my skull in the same way children yell into vacant caves. Have to shut the window. Blackout curtains aid the illusion of my endless night—less like I’m rotting in a cave, more like the sun is folklore. Of course, drawing the curtains shatters the illusion like spilled red wine on an alabaster carpet. I swallow the curse trapezing on my tongue. It’s not her fault.

In the weeks, months, since I’ve navigated the garden, the foliage has swelled. Leaf-smothered branches worm behind tree trunks to marry azalea shrubs. Movement in my peripheral startles me into focus. A shrub quivers. Out pops a set of floppy chestnut ears, a twitching nose, black beady eyes. The rabbit launches into the open—I flinch. Three years of scrolling Instagram for the serotonin surge from strangers cradling golden retrievers, and an unpixellated ball of fluff becomes a mythical creature.  

I’m transfixed on this rabbit. It leisurely hops the fence’s perimeter. Clouds cluster overhead, but it’s bright enough for my eyes to sting. A neighbor’s bedspread dances with the breeze. What am I meant to be doing? A nose-diving seagull cackles like a supervillain, and I tug the latch with shaking fingers. My erratic heartbeat hammers against my ribs. The rabbit is gone. I sigh and whip the curtains shut.

My sister is a photographer. A good one, according to her wall calendar of European landscapes littered with client times and locations. Dad had been ecstatic when she offered to take me in— We’ll be roommates. It’ll be fun! At first, it was. I worked part-time at Trader Joe’s, smeared concealer under my eyes before 8.a.m lectures, and chugged endless cups of caffeine like every other twenty-one-year-old. Sometimes I’d let my extroverted classmates drag me to dingy dive bars with sticky floors, and other nights I sat in warm cafes that played smooth jazz, nursing a black coffee until the barista sent me an apologetic nod.  

At some point, a parasitic seed was planted. Like invisible weights had been tied to my limbs and lungs, I heaved myself around like a statue made of metal scraps. My morning coffee order sent the barista’s eyebrows to their hairline. Burned out in every sense, I locked my deadlines in a vault and skipped classes just to cling to my pillow for another hour. The first time I called in sick, the lie fell off my tongue like old skin from a shedding reptile. I’d spent the day in the fetal position; it hadn’t taken long for them to catch on. 

Two weeks and three Texas wedding shoots later, my sister had come home. She ordered Chinese food from the Taxi and pursed her lips instead of pointing out the piles of abandoned clothes and tower of dishes. I had hovered in the hallway like an intruder, listening to her hum until it was drowned out by the whoosh of the tap. The clinking of dishes and rising warmth of garlic and ginger propelled me to the kitchen at last.

“So,” She said, spooning fried rice onto her plate, “what’s new?” Her gentle tone masked the impending interrogation. Nothing like our mother.

“Nothing, really.” I had replied, slicing into juicy pork.

Her eyebrows disappeared further into her bangs.

“Remember—I taught you how to lie.”

“Fine,” I tried to sound casual, “I got fired.”

“Fired?! Jesus! What happened?”  

“Nothing, really. I just, like, stopped going…”

I had expected an explosion. Instead, she said nothing. Did nothing. My clammy hands gripped my fork until I feared it would melt into my skin. Like we’d only discussed the weather, she continued eating. Hunted beneath unopened mail for the remote. Let the newsreel fill the silence.

When my plate was empty, I had realised she was waiting for my explanation.

“It’s gonna sound nuts,” I said.

“Try me.”

Chewing on my bottom lip, I had tried to manifest the words. I opened and closed my mouth in silence until the truth spilled from me like an exorcised demon.

“I don’t know why, or when, or how, but… something changed. I was going to class, work, being normal or whatever… and then… I don’t know. I stopped. No more cafes. No more walks. Every time I try, my chest burns and my head pounds and I can’t breathe. I think that’s it, really—when I go outside, I can’t breathe.”

My sister put down her fork. Wiped her mouth with a tissue.

Less than an hour later, I had an emergency appointment with a psychiatrist. During the cab ride, my sister held my hand, pressed a wad of cash into my palm, and squeezed twice before nudging me out. I’d perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair in the waiting room, staring into the fishes' glazed eyes and wondering if they felt trapped, too.

Dr. Rushmore had worn a cream pant-suit; her hair was slicked into a bun at the base of her neck. She timed the appointment with a sand hourglass and tucked the money into her purse after holding it to the light. Squinting over half-moon glasses, she observed me like I was an intricate and confusing exhibit in a modern art gallery. She didn’t say much but scribbled a novel of notes about me that I assumed were unfavourable at best.

As the last of the sand trickled to the bottom, she dropped her pen like it had burned her— she was done with me. Armed with a Prozac prescription and brain fog, I was free to go. Case closed.

Afterward, I had harassed the internet with the breadcrumbs Dr. Rushmore had dropped, and stayed up all night compiling a three-page document on agoraphobia.

“Isn’t that when you hate spiders?” My sister had asked, dishcloth in one hand and plate in the other.

“That’s arachnophobia,” I replied.

“Right.”

Dad had just bought an apartment in Japan with his twenty-seven-year-old girlfriend—Hana. Honestly, I’m not sure he would have come home even if we’d asked. So, as my sister tried to tempt me with The Outside like tempting a lion with raw meat, the charade began. New Mexican place on fifth. The Film House just started a Greek mythology month. Half-price cocktails at the gay bar. I didn’t bite. Eventually, she had to resume the jobs that paid rent; the engagement photos in the desert, birthday parties for designer dogs in a different state’s suburbia. I convince myself that the lies benefit us both. I let her believe the meds help, that I’m seeing friends and applying for jobs. This way, she doesn’t call me in the middle of the night.  

In an empty house, it’s easy to pretend everything is as it should be. My sister shares an anecdote from a brunch, pours a glass of rosé, giggles about a man she met in Hawaii, and all I can contemplate is how dangerous it all is. She juggles her life flagging down city cabs, presses shoulders with sweaty strangers at concerts, revels in horseback riding and skydiving like she’s made of concrete.

Every morning, before the sun stretches above the rooftops, the rabbit takes a tentative leap from the shrubs. It hops around the marigolds and passes the lavender bush before it’s startled by a revving engine or a door slam. Standing at the window is the only routine I have.  

It’s Thursday. My sister arrives on Saturday, and if I don’t count, I’ll forget. Today, the sky shines blue like butterfly wings. I press my hand against the window; the warm glass kisses my skin. On cue, the rabbit emerges, but my stomach sinks. Something’s off. It hops at an angle, mangled leg hugged to its chest. Fox attack, maybe? A cat? Do cats attack rabbits? My head spins—this rabbit is my only connection to The Outside. It needs a vet. Could I catch it? Maybe one of the neighbor’s has a cat carrier I could use? My thoughts strike like lightning before dissolving into balls of mulchy paper. It doesn’t matter what the neighbors have; I can’t go out there. For a second, I forgot. It’s chewing at the leg now, and I’m chewing on my bottom lip hard enough for my mouth to taste metallic. What’s the worst that could happen? Trick question. Every possible freak accident plays in my head. But the rabbit is leaving spots of blood on the leaves. With closed fists and gritted teeth, I leave the window.

I dress like my ship has landed on a planet with the climate of the North Pole. Thermal socks. Hair tucked into a hoodie that drowns me. Combat boots. Beanie under the hood. Sweat trickles down my neck, but what if someone sees me? I mutter to myself as I lace my boots, cursing whatever God made small, plant-eating animals so goddamn irresistible. Couldn’t they possess rows of glistening canines and sandpaper skin instead? My burning chest crescendos, and for the first time in years, I let it. No more backing away from sunlight like Dracula. No more shuddering at hollering kids as they race past the house.

Panic scrapes its hooves along the carpet, rearing onto its hind legs as I grip the keys between my knuckles. The dangers of The Outside are sewn to my eyelids. I unlock the door with numb fingers and pull it in bursts until the June breeze brushes my cheeks. The burning, like someone is reaching down my throat and squeezing my lungs. I wheeze like I’m breathing through a hospital tube. But… the rabbit. Shivering, helpless, suffering. Something surges above the burning, something that blooms across my chest like sunflowers. I step out and let the summer sun soak my hooded head.