The Window

My days blur together.

Every day is the same.

Wake up, take a shower, eat some breakfast, read a book, watch TV, and go to bed, over and over again.

It may seem boring but I prefer my days this way. Predictable. Easy. With a slight haze to my vision. No doubt the drugs my doctors give me to keep me calm.

I have crippling anxiety. At least that’s what my therapist says. Because of this, I spend my days in this repetitive manner. It calms me. Keeps me grounded in my reality. 

One of my favorite parts of my day is when I walk past the window in my room. My flat is pretty big, all things considered. Living room, guest bath, and kitchen on the first floor, some steps lead upstairs to my room and a guest room. There are identical houses right next to us on either side. An endless row of the same exact house. 

Just how I like it. 

Walking past the window in my room, I have an uninterrupted view of my neighbor’s room in the house next to us. She has a rough go of it, from the looks of it. Her husband is a scary man. Tall, broad, would-be-handsome if his fist wasn’t bruising her face every time I saw them. Have I actually seen him hit her? No. But she sits on her bed, staring at me with bruises marring her face and the saddest look you’ve ever seen.

Watching them every day is not the most virtuous thing, I’m aware. But in some crazy, messed up way, it makes me feel better about my own life. 

So every day, I go through my routine, I make my way to my room, and I sit. Watching her. She stares back and then eventually jumps from a sound behind her and walks off. I walk off, too, as her jump reminds me I probably shouldn’t spend my day staring at a stranger.

I feel like I know her now. It’s been months of our daily meetings here. Sometimes, kids will run towards her and try to get her attention. But she never pays them a second glance. They try for a minute or two, then give up and run out of the room. 

That always makes me sad. Not only is it this woman being abused, but probably her kids, too. If not abused, then scared and scarred from their monster of a father. It makes my chest constrict painfully as if I know them personally. As if I fear for them. 

I know what it’s like to be afraid of men in your life. I’m no stranger to abuse and fear being the dominant feelings in a household. My father was an abusive alcoholic and my ex-husband was a man who loved to beat others for fun.

I always said I would never be like my mother and end up with someone like my dad.

Well, the apple never falls far from the tree. No matter how hard we try.

There’s always something familiar about the woman in the window. I always stare at her as if I know her. Something in her eyes, something about her kids, calls to me. 

But I shake it off when she walks off each day and forgets until our meeting the next day. 

An endless stream of meetings. With nothing significant that happens. Just watching. Staring. Noticing her purple smudges under her eyes. Her pale skin from lack of light. Her stringy hair as if she hasn’t showered in days. The way she jumps with every little noise she hears. 

I find comfort in this. 

I know. I’m messed up. But the peace it gives me is worth it. 

I often feel like my flat is haunted. Every now and then I hear footsteps upstairs. A giggle or a scream. But it disappears before I can go upstairs to investigate. These noises have freaked me out in the past. I always pop some of my meds when I hear them. The meds calm me and clear the noises right out. Sometimes images of my ex-husband sneak up into my vision. I pop a pill then, too. I don’t ever want to remember that man, again.

I wake up one day and the sun is shining brightly. A beautiful day. Golden yellow. It feels like a day where anything is possible. Where maybe something out of the ordinary might happen. 

I hate that. 

I don’t want out of the ordinary. 

I want it rainy, gloomy, and just like the day before. 

I go through the motions on my own. Hoping to keep the day the same. Refusing to allow anything out of the ordinary. 

I take my shower, brush my hair, and put on my comfy clothes. 

I make my way downstairs and eat my breakfast. I read while I eat and then I watch a couple episodes of TV. 

After this, I know what time it is. 

I head upstairs for my daily meeting with the girl next door. 

Something feels off on my way upstairs. Like I’m walking through water. It feels muddy and sticky in my brain. I force my legs, refusing to miss our meeting. 

I make my way into the room and when I walk towards the window, something sticks out to me. She’s walking into the room, too. At the same time as me. 

I’d never thought about the fact that we both come to our windows at the exact same time every day. What a coincidence. 

I notice her clothes. 

The exact same as mine. 

Her head cocks to the side and the bruises on her face grow paler. 

I walk up towards the window slowly. She follows my every step. 

As I approach the window, I lift my hand to touch the glass. 

She does it, too. 

In that moment it all comes back. The pills clear and my hand touches the mirror with surprising clarity. 

My answering scream is silenced by my husband’s hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see our children running to their room. Quickly. In my lucid mind, I’m proud at their quickness. 

He forces the needle in my arm to sedate me quickly. 

The room grows black. My vision fading to nothing. 

The next morning, I wake up and continue my routine. My peaceful, quiet routine. 

None the wiser.