I Want to Stay Inside

Carter stood in his living room. His bare feet, callused and dirty but with carefully trimmed toenails, sank into the stubbly carpet. The only sound was that of flies, buzzing around day old ramen cups and peanut butter cracker packets strewn across his coffee table.

The doorbell rang suddenly, its chime a sour sounding B flat. Carter's bloodshot eyes sprang open and centered on the door, narrowing into slits. Knobby fingers tightened around his shotgun, shiny and gleaming in the little light that slipped through the dusty curtains. With cautious steps, he edged toward the door, his skeletal frame black in the gray light.

Carter hesitated to touch his doorknob. He wet his chapped lips and scratched behind his ears, delaying. The doorbell rang again, making him jump. Carter's weak heart labored in his narrow chest. He put a hand to it and sucked in deep breaths of stale air. It took a moment longer to calm his nerves.

Carter touched the doorknob again. It was cold in his sweaty palm. He set down the gun, not too far away, and opened the door no wider than one, tired blue eye.

He peered out, but no one was there. Had he been ding-dong ditched again? Probably. Carter was just about to close the door again when he looked down. There was a card on his crumbling concrete step, and next to it, a plate of sugar cookies, wrapped in clear plastic.

Carter opened his door wider, enough to show his awkward, angular face. His eyes darted from one side of the street to the other, looking for signs of movement, signs of foul play. But there weren't any. It was a Monday, and the sun was high in the sky. The children that terrified him, with their sticky hands and high-pitched squeals, were safely locked away in school. And their parents, whose smiles seemed to twist into grimaces the more they looked at him, had either gone to work or remained in their homes. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

The door swung open and Carter dashed out, grabbing the plate and card quickly. All the while he cast furtive glances at the empty street. He turned to slink back inside, but paused. There'd been a new message sprayed on his door, bright blue compared to the years of fading graffiti underneath.

In all honesty, this message was tame. It was only two words, and written in a different language.

Sin vergüenza.

"So what?" Carter croaked like an old toad. He hadn't used his voice in a long time. There was no reason to.

Only until the door was securely shut and locked behind him could Carter breathe a sigh of relief.

Carter never ate the cookies or touched the letter. The letter might have had Anthrax hidden inside, and the cookies could've been poisoned. He couldn't risk it, as touched as he was that someone would go to the effort. He kept them hidden away, the cookies in the icebox and the letter under a pile of books in the corner.

When Carter's doorbell rang again, at least a day had gone by. It might've been a week, but he didn't keep track, and couldn't be bothered to use a calendar.

As it chimed, he sat on his stairs, scribbling in his notepad with a stub of a pencil. He'd put tennis shoes on, but they were ratty and riddled with holes. His jeans were just as frayed. Carter glanced up at the door, through wet, tangled hair. He ran his fingers through it, stood up, and opened the door. Not too wide, never wide enough to step out, at least when people were looking. It was just wide enough to look.

A woman peered up at him through the crack. She was either extremely short, or he was extremely tall. Whichever it was, Carter didn't recall.

But she was pretty, he remembered that much. Not the conventional pretty, oh no. She was. . .she was. . . Carter hated how words limited him. He found it all very frustrating.