The Safest Place

Content Warning: mental health, discussion of violent crime, death.

The sharp click of the fifth lock sliding into place with finality is like breaking the surface after holding my breath too long.

I rest my forehead against the solid wood door, inhaling. In, hold for five seconds, out. Repeat. Five times. Always five.

“I am fine. I am safe,” I whisper, four times. It feels wrong, so I add one more. Five.

I have a thing about the number five—well I have a laundry list of things, but following a sequence of five is one of them.

Today was brutal, so I’m clinging to my comfort rituals to keep from unraveling. My therapist would say that hard days can trigger worse compulsive behaviors. She canceled our virtual session today, leaving me alone to drown in my intrusive thoughts.

What if I imagined that I locked the door but didn’t?

What if someone slipped in while I was in the shower this morning and they’ve been hiding, waiting for the right moment?

Five heavy duty locks have been installed on every door. All twelve windows on my quaint craftsman bungalow have been sealed shut. It took four years to get an official diagnosis, but the signs were always there.

Agoraphobia. A mouthful. Just a clinical way to say my anxiety found a new way to manifest and now the thought of leaving my house is crippling.

What’s one more disorder in the grand scheme of things, right?

I wasn’t always like this. I used to spend Saturday mornings waiting in the long, claustrophobic line at my local coffee shop. I went to a weekly yoga class, had brunch with friends and explored new places all over the world. Now reaching my hand out to grab my mail and bring in deliveries is debilitating.

My laptop screen stares back at me from the kitchen island. Three more minutes until I can log out.

Benedict hops up onto the counter, flicking his fluffy orange tail in my face. I nudge him away.

“Excuse me, sir. Some of us have to work to afford your wet food cravings.”

He blinks at me slowly with his perpetually grumpy Persian face that still somehow manages to be enduring. I can’t resist, reaching out to give him a little scratch behind his ear and he nuzzles into my touch.

His purr is insistent, deep, and grounding. The sound fills the space like a comforting white noise.

The news murmurs from the living room: a reporter urging local residents to “lock your doors and be vigilant” in the wake of another home invasion. The fifth one this month. My eyes flick to the front door. Locked.

“I am fine. I am safe.”

But what if I’m hallucinating?

What if I unlocked them without knowing, because deep down I want to be the next victim?

My throat tightens until I can’t stand it. I cross the room, checking each lock one by one. Unlocking and locking them again.

Lock. Check. Lock. Check. Lock. Check—

The reporter’s voice breaks through my concentration: “We have identified the victim of last night’s gruesome incident. Twenty-eight-year-old elementary school teacher, Melissa Vega was stabbed thirty-four times in her home Thursday evening. The chief of police says they have a lead, but no official suspects at this time.”

That could’ve been me.

She lived five minutes away.

Five minutes.

That’s all that separates me from Melissa Vega.

After perusing my small collection, I pull out a velvety Merlot.

Everyone has their vices.

I pour a generous glass with shaky hands, it sloshes over the rim, staining my marble countertop crimson. I lick the droplets off my fingers, a little embarrassed even though I’m completely alone—other than Benedict of course. But he’s not paying any attention to me, happily engorging on a foul smelling can of wet food.

The weekend weather update replaces the horrors happening in my own backyard.

One glass turns into two. The tightness in my muscles loosen and I finally start to relax.

On glass number three I realize the bottle is half-empty, but I tell myself it’s fine—today deserves a little mercy.

By the fourth, the room feels softer. Quieter. My body feels heavy with exhaustion. I stop checking the locks with my eyes, instead checking them in my head. I can almost hear the clicks.

Five glasses. The number settles over me like a weighted blanket. Safe. Right. Complete.

The news drones on, a lighter segment, but my eyelids are heavy. I sink into the couch, the empty glass slipping from my hand, the world blurring around the edges.

I don’t hear the first spark.

Or the second.

I don’t smell the smoke curling from the kitchen, or the soft crackle that grows into a roar.

I only wake when the fire alarm screams, like knives through my ears.

The air is thick and black. My throat seizes, a raw metallic taste filling my mouth.

Benny. My heart lurches. Where is Benny?

I drop to my hands and knees, coughing, crying, and gasping for breath. It takes everything to drag my body toward the front door. The walls groan, the paint I spent weeks deciding on blistering like skin. Wood splinters and crackles as flames lick the ceiling. Photos from a life I used to know devoured, curtains my sister helped me hang turned to ash, I watch in horror as the walls that kept me safe from the outside, transform into my worst nightmare.

I reach the door, glancing behind to see the entire back half of my home engulfed in a burning inferno. I reach for the first lock, hissing when the metal sears my skin. Trying again, using my shirt as a buffer, but it’s no match against the blistering metal.

I can’t unlock them.

Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. So close.

But I can’t hold on much longer. My lungs ache, ears straining in search for a faint meow.

I curl onto the floor, my palm pressed against the roasting wood. Tears slip down my cheeks in hot, endless trails. The weight of the locks that were supposed to keep me safe pressing me into the floor.

And then I give in, closing my eyes—and feel nothing.