Separate and scream

I heard the pinging of the alarm first in my dream, then suddenly I was up with the force of decades of adrenaline reacting to everything, small bangs on neighbouring walls, a dog’s bark behind me on a run, the two words—“let’s chat.” I paused at the bedroom door, hand hovering over the knob before deciding to be brave. I did have a cat, after all; he could need me now like I need him. I threw open the door and shouted, “hey, it’s me! I’m calling the cops!!”

The thing is, I have a shitty alarm system. Some cheap thing I bought online. It came the next day, two magnets that trip at the door and windows, parting and yelling. I realigned the magnet strips and took a sharp breath, hands still on my phone. I looked around my tiny apartment and found no one and nothing. “Are you a ghost?” I asked to the dim room, a single light on in the corner.

“It's okay if you are,” I said. “You can stay, I guess.”

“I don’t have many friends” I laughed through my nose at the irony that these little magnet strips that give me a false sense of safety also represent the holding of me in.

“Something happened to me last year” My elbows on my knees now, and I looked into the room with weary eyes.

“It makes me afraid all the time,” I said to the ghost. “So I bought this stupid alarm to keep me safe.”

A moment passes, and my cat rubs my feet, circles the room, rubs the shelf, its scratching post, the closet door before circling back.

“You see, I think I’m like these stupid little alarms, something hits them, a wind blows, some dust settles and I separate and scream.” I look at the ceiling with red and water-rimmed eyes, hoping the ghost might actually be there. 

 “I’ve never told anyone this before, ghost, but I’m tired. They go off so much,” I stifle a sob with my hand, rubbing it over my face as I sit up straight.

I look again to the ceiling as if the ghost could be there, “the ironic thing about always needing to be safe is that it makes me want to die.”

------

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I scrambled through the window of the first-floor apartment as it closed behind me. I don’t know what I hoped to find, some ticket out, be it gems or bars-- I didn’t care. The cold air was too much that night. It bit at me in a way that lunged me forward into danger. I hadn’t expected an alarm. Not in this neighbourhood.

I saw a cat in the corner roll and show me its belly. I heard movement from the bedroom. Fuck. I panicked, not thinking, did I ever? I crept into the closet, sighing at the luck that it had room to spare.

“Hey its me! I’m calling the cops!!” I let the calm and quiet of not giving a damn wash over me—something I’ve practiced since I was a little girl-- to be unseen by things scarier than dark closets.

“Are you a ghost?” A quivering voice asked into the living room.

“Its okay if you are. You can stay, I guess” Oh god, she’s crazy. 

“I don’t have many friends” Hey, me either, want to come visit me in jail. I almost laughed then.

“Something happened to me last year” The quiet of being small and invisible was replaced by the quiet of listening now.  

“It makes me afraid all the time.” I know what that’s like…

 “So I bought this stupid alarm to keep me safe” I hear a swooshing sound against the door. Shit. My breath snags in my chest.

“You see, I think I’m like these stupid little alarms. Something hits them, a wind blows, some dust settles, and I separate and scream.” I ran out of screams a long time ago, kid, currency in my family, the withholding of them in exchange for peace. 

 “I’ve never told anyone this before, ghost, but I’m tired. They go off so much” Mine too, kid; I’m in debt now and numb; their interest rate is hurting myself-- breaking into strangers' homes to feel something.

“The ironic thing about always needing to be safe is that it makes me want to die.”

The ironic thing about wanting to die is that it makes me feel alive. 

-----

The din of the night filled my apartment now. I scanned the room—no ghosts in sight. My cat stretched out along the length of my closet door. A door-sized cat, I laughed to myself.

“Thanks, ghost, for listening,” I said with a little too much hope that it might be true.

I paused on my way back to bed and opened my window, just a crack disengaging the alarm. Still, a stick wedged in place—just in case—and went to bed.

-----

I heard a door shut to what I could only hope was the bedroom. I waited a while, hoping she would fall asleep and continue to think I was a ghost—It wasn’t far from the truth, anyway.

I slowly opened the closet door and was met with resistance; that cat sprawled out, blocking my way.

I managed to get around it and scanned the room like I did every room. What haunted this girl is second nature to me now.

Tiptoeing towards the open window, I caught a glimpse of a wallet and pill bottle on a table, anxiety meds, the good and addicting kind to kill me slowly and make me feel alive. I stared at them so hard I couldn’t tell you if the tears in my eyes were from that or from some deep, hidden pain this girl's story unlocked.

I felt a soft nudge on my ankle and looked down through blurry eyes at the cat, playfully rolling now.

Goodnight, cat. Goodbye, ghost, 

And I left through the window left open just a little bit.