Afterglow

The syncopated and harmonious rhythm of the ticking clock and impact of raindrops falling on the window lulled me into lethargy. The monotonous pace of another day spent inside the walls of my home, both my prison and refuge, was set to this natural metronome. I could walk from one end to the other in little time. However, the aimless wandering from room to room only to forget the purpose of my small journey, left me to be satisfied taking up space in the sitting room. I waited for a pause or change in rhythm, internally pleading for a disruption. Usually, I would allow the phone to ring until it ceased after the eighth time, a normal petulance. But today I would have eagerly answered with a eager greeting, waiting for another voice to wake me from my hypnotic unanimated state. 

           The late afternoon songbirds erupted with their busy chirping, and stole my attention. I envied their simple yet productive lives that came from the constant tasks of survival endowed to them by nature. Propping my knees on my armchair, I leaned over the back and peaked open the curtains enough to catch a glimpse. My curiosity obliged me to attempt to identify my whimsical neighbors, and the source of the sounds. The pane of glass provided the only barrier between me and the outside. The sunlight filtered through the otherwise dimly lit room as the afternoon sun moved further westward. 

           With one hand gripping each end of the damask, I opened the curtains further and more fully laid head back into my chair so that oak tree and the natural geometry of its extending branches filled my peripheral vision, as if I were in the tree amongst them. The birds fluttered from branch to branch as my breathing slowed, and my eyelids fell heavy until they closed.

           I awoke to a loud echo of thunder, the shaking of glass, and complete darkness. My chest burst with a sense of panic in my sudden loss of sense of time and place. I jolted out of the armchair and stumbled to turn on a table light to restore my sight. I glanced at the clock on the wall, still ticking, as it showed me it was half past nine. I strolled to the other side of the room, through the kitchen, back hallway, and to the bedroom, turning on a light in every room, perhaps to verify I was still the only one there. 

As my nerves calmed down, I thought to make myself a light dinner. It was less from a feeling of hunger, and more a diversion and activity to occupy my time. The heavy rain and occasional thunder provided a nice background of sound in what otherwise would have been unnerving silence. I retrieved my ingredients from the fridge and began to make a sandwich. As I opened the jar of mayo, and grabbed my knife from the counter top, I felt a wet spot. It was far from the sink and even farther from the window, as I wondered if rain might have leaked through. Even more bizarre is that I clean and wipe down all surfaces after preparing a meal. Cleaning was a routine that supplied me with a feeling of control in an otherwise uncertain time. I grabbed a towel and wiped up the liquid, and then finished preparing my sandwich. As I picked up the plate and walked towards the table, I slipped on another small puddle on the floor, dropping my plate and watching my dinner fall apart on the floor. In my frustration, I yelled and cursed my voice raspy from not speaking in a while. Anger quickly turned into confusion and then concern as I stared at the wet spot, wondering if the roof was leaking. The thought of an intruder crossed my mind for only a second before I dismissed it as paranoia induced by days of isolation. 

           The sky suddenly lit up outside my dining room window and I quickly made my way to it, wanting to watch the storm while simultaneously feeling safe inside the walls of my home. The tree branches were violently swaying as the wind whipped the rain around. After picking up the remnants of my first meal, I turned around to make another. Wasting my last pieces of bread on the floor, I went to the pantry for a different option. As I opened the door, I noticed a pile of crushed crackers in front of the shelves with the box on the ground. Maybe the intruder was a small rodent. I grabbed the broom and cleaned it up regardless, and the place in my mind that was occupied by a need to prepare food changed into rumination over what caused these disturbances. 

Scenarios of harm and ill intent came in waves: a disease carrying animal, a stalker, or a homicidal lurker. I felt so defenseless and trapped without the option to go outside, choosing between the danger of the storm and natural elements to the horror of an unknown threat inside. Deciding to act rather than be paralyzed by anxiety, I stomped loudly from room to room, screaming at the top of my lungs like a maniac, a warning call that what lurks inside my own mind should terrify any potential assailant. After minutes had passed, my voice became hoarse and my will grew tired. I had exhausted myself and the adrenaline abated. I retreated to my bedroom to collect myself as if some unknown observer was watching, and I wished to maintain my dignity. I lay on the bed, staring out the window as the storm started to let up. In a moment of anguish, I cried silently. It was mourning for the helplessness I felt, and for these last hours of life forever wasted. Surrendering to the final hours of the day and the last of my dark thoughts, I crossed that nebulous line between consciousness and sleep. 

A golden light shone under my eyelids, as I blinked them open. A thin beam of sunshine stretched from the window to my night stand, covering my face and bed in warmth and light. The previous evening seemed distant, and I didn’t recall any dream. I wandered out of bed, still dressed in the same clothing from the night before, to my armchair. The curtains were still drawn back, and the room was awash with the afterglow of sun after a storm. The oak tree remained erect and tall and its branches secure. The birds sang triumphantly of the continuation of life into another day. I thought them survivors of the storm as well, wondering if they also took refuge. But then I came to the realization that the birds simply weather the storm, always assured of the morning after.