There is light under my door. A fine line of artificial sunshine piercing through the darkness of my room and stretching lazily on the cream-coloured carpet. Voices that I hear but words that I can't really understand. The muffled sound of footsteps on the carpet, people going up and down the stairs, the buzzing of the hoover somewhere down the corridor. The sound of the raindrops crashing in the gutter outside my window. Or maybe it is the tap of the kitchen sink — drop, drop, drop. I hear the sun coming in by the front door, the rustle of paper bags.
Ah. That means there must be food in the fridge now.
But I stay put. My eyes are stuck on the door handle of my room and I can't feel my feet. I hear the fire crepitate in the chimney, the inaudible poc! of the snowflakes falling on my Velux window. People chatting in the living room, the sound my mom makes every time she turns a page of the book she's reading in the blue velvet rocking chair, the cat purring by the fire.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. There's a shadow under my door — and then a knock. My blood turns cold. My heart beats loud in my chest, in my ears, until it's all I can hear.
Here comes the muffled voice too. What did she say?
I can't understand a thing, the words do not imprint on my mind. The flow is too rapid, have you tried controlling a torrent before? Impossible. I blabber something unintelligible, I try so hard to fight the fog that clouds my mind to answer something, anything that makes sense and that could make the person on the other side of the door go away.
''I'm fine.'' I can hear myself say. I don't blink. I can't. My eyes are too big for my head. They zero in on the retracting shadow under my door. When it's gone, when I'm left all alone, I begin to wonder. How long have I stayed here?
I should have walked around my room this morning, to make my footsteps heard. I should have opened some drawers a bit too loudly, turned on my electric toothbrush for a minute or two... so that the house wouldn't have wondered why one of its instruments was missing during its daily symphony. I close my eyes and feel disappointment wash over me. And like a snail that withdraws its body into its shell whenever danger threatens, I grip my worn-out cover and let my body slip into the depth of my bed to muffle the sounds of the life I chose not to partake in anymore.
***
The next time I wake up, it's dark outside. I had hoped that sleeping for a bit would have lessened the weird feeling in my body. It seems like I was wrong. I stay like that for a while, with my tight and burning chest and my numb feet; because I know my vision will be blurry as soon as I open my eyes.
I hate it, this impression I often get, this strange sensation of seeing the world from behind a foggy glass or a muslin curtain. It reminds me of when I was younger and how I would get dizzy when borrowing my grandma's glasses. That would make me laugh so much at the time! I was happy to walk around like that, to sway on my feet and bump into the walls of the yellow kitchen. I would keep them on for hours although they made my head hurt.
But now, I hate it. I hate how I can't snap out of it, no matter how hard I pinch my arm. I hate how hours, days, weeks go in a blur, how I wake up one morning to a summer day and how I wake up one night to a cold winter. It is as if I'm not here, as if I lay dormant in the back of my skull like a viscous puddle of grey matter, witnessing myself move like an automaton or not moving at all.
I sigh and decide to open my eyes in spite of all this, in spite of everything. I sit down where my bed ends and the ground starts all the while vehemently pushing the duvet that makes me suffocate. I watch my feet under me, I make my toes wiggle to make sure I am still me.
I feel pressure in my lower abdomen. I try to focus, to concentrate my attention on the sensation. It takes me some time to realise that my bladder is full. Owning a body really takes too much effort and maintenance.
I stand up and wait for the room to stop spinning, which makes me remember it has been forever since I have had something to eat. The thought of food itself makes me ill. I try to suppress the ugly sensation between my ribs and I distract myself by taking tentative steps towards my sink and the looking glass. I look up to meet my eyes through the mirror. It's too dark to really see anything but I like it that way; it's easier to disregard the too many objects my dissociated eye can't catch when the darkness is to blame.
There are dark circles under my eyes and my cheeks are more hollowed than I remember. Looking in the mirror, I feel like watching my reflection on the surface of an undulating water stream: I can see my features but not the entirety of my face, like a jigsaw puzzle that would need to be put together. There is something uncanny about it all, my eyes seem to see rather than look -without purpose- as if I was staring at a white unblemished wall. There is nothing to see there, no colour, no expression, no life. I sigh and rub my face to try and feel it, in vain: it is like touching a painting as my fingers do not register the relief of my nose, cheeks and lips.
I throw a glance at the closed door and try hard to decipher if there is any sound coming from the other side. After some time, I detach myself from the sink and make my way to the door. The handle is cold against my hand and it takes me a while to muster the courage to press down on it. Making sure no one is around, I stride across the landing and lock myself in the bathroom.
The three meters separating my room from the toilet have never felt so wearying in my entire life.
