Thanatophobia (fear of dying)

Wednesday

Wednesday

I woke up to a cold sweat encasing my body, and with sheets tangled helplessly around my legs. That peculiar feeling of being under someone else’s scrutiny sent an unwelcome shiver through my spine.

Not an entirely pleasant way to wake up.

And the unpleasant trend seemed to last; I hobbled through the day like a schizophrenic.

Monsters were at every turn, behind every corner a rapist.

I was reduced to having the courage of a groundhog. Even my own shadow scared me into going back and huddling in my little hole of an apartment.

But, despite a few mishaps when I jumped and screamed at nothing (probably marking me as a lunatic for life), the shadows were relatively free of sadistic murders and other such monsters.

Still, when I came back from my classes around five, I biked much faster than usual, pumping my legs furiously and forcing as air left my lungs, creating little clouds of mist in the frigid air.  

Especially, as I neared my apartment, my heart beat went crazy, and I didn’t dare stop until I had my back to the closed door, sensible of my panting.

I felt ridiculous and terribly paranoid to say the least.

I combed my fingers through my long, deep red hair grimacing when they got tangled in the variety of knots. If I spent the time dying it, you think I would care enough to try and brush it out more often. But, no, I was too focused on the possibility that someone was stalking me. I was too busy freaking out at every stray sound instead.

 Perhaps, I was mentally insane after all. Could it be so farfetched? I knew I had some abnormal tendencies especially when it came to things like death, though I was far from depressive or anything.

No, I shook my head and set on the boiling water, trying to do things with my hands in an attempt clear my mind. I wasn’t normal, but just because I wasn’t the average Jane Doe didn’t mean that I had some sort of mental disorder.

I heard a knock on the door, and went away from my task with some mild curiosity. I hardly ever got visitors considering my neighbors were even worse social outcasts than me. I looked through the little eyehole first, to see a young woman. When I opened the door, I saw that she was short, with closely cut black hair. She had a large smile on her face and deep brown eyes. She seemed friendly enough, though I didn’t recognize her. She was carrying a white cardboard box in her arms.

“Hello.” I greeted, smiling warmly.

“Hey,” She greeted. “I’m Macy from Sweetie’s Bake Shop and I have an order for a Miss Jezebel Evans.”

“I didn’t order anything.” I scrunched up my eyebrows in confusion.

“This order came in anonymous, paid for with an envelope of cash. It looks like you have a secret admirer on your hands sweetheart.” She gave me a wink, as she pushed the box into my now numb arms. For some reason I didn’t feel like I had a secret admirer.