It started on a Tuesday.
I ran from the car to the front door in the night, a cold rain pelted all around me and on top of the music book I held above my head, while I fumbled with my keys and twisted the door unlocked. Gratefully stepping into the kitchen, dim and silent other then the rain pounding, I flipped on the lights to find Molly brushing up against my legs and meowing for attention. I slid my boots off and sighed, taking my time to enjoy the warmth and privacy of my own home. Work had been the closest thing to hell I'd ever seen.
I took to myself and made it a priority to wind down early, due to my fatigue and lack of any consideration of what I might have to face of my colleagues the next day. I slipped into a sweatshirt, made my routine mug of chai, and sat down at the bar counter in the kitchen, unsure of what do to or how to feel. I had wanted to cry since noon; the burning sensation grew in my throat like a flower, but never found its way to push itself out. I was used to balling up emotions and being apathetic around everyone, but when alone, I found no solid reason to hold back. Hot tears began to drip on the granite countertop, and I slowly felt myself beginning to lose it. I wiped my face, smearing makeup on my hand, and grabbed the well-used piano book I picked up on the way home, the cover still wet with beads of rain. I stepped off of my wooden stool, went to the grand piano in the living room, and sat down in the place one could say I was happiest in the world. I opened to a random page and began to sight read the first thing I saw.
I focused on the music and let my fingers play around all up and down the scale, following the notes and forgetting everything else. This was what I had loved to do ever since I had my first music class in grade school. I played for a good half hour; Molly stood at my feet with her ears perked as I progressively hit the chords harder the angrier I grew at myself and everything I screwed up at work, or in my life, rather. It was quite the therapy session.
After half an hour I wrapped it up with a final satisfying chord at the end of a piece. I let my foot rest on the pedal for four more beats, and then sound of the rain filled the house, giving off a hollow echo. I sat for a minute and let the music sink in like I always did, until I was startled ten feet in the air. To my sudden surprise and coming from what sounded like the attic, was loud, solid, slow clapping.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
I froze, my heart pumped in my ears and I felt my face getting hot as my brain scrambled. I lived alone; and I had for almost a year. I slowly stood up and wobbled on my unsecure knees, until I had the courage to turn around. It had just stopped, but I was positive I wasn't crazy by looking at Molly, who was darting around my legs with her tail fluffed. I bolted over to the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife from the drawer and dialed 911, a technique my parents had me practice as a kid; I was never one to expect to use it. I started to cry, this time not from frustration, but from fear, in its true, ungodly self.
The second the operator picked up I explained what was going on; Although the woman sounded a tad bitter, she still soothed me slightly and was possibly the person to hear my last words. I gave her my address, scooped up Molly and locked myself in the coat closet. My heart raced and I had the unshakeable feeling of being watched, or in the least, not being alone. I sat uncomfortably like a kid playing hide and seek in the closet while I breathed in and out, focusing on the scent of old clothes and wood.
Every second that ticked by grew larger, and the more I resented the cops for not getting here sooner. The idea of being murdered this early on in my life seemed more blood-curdling then the fact that someone was in my house; I held no grudges against anyone of significance and had no explanatory reason as to why someone would want to hurt me. I took after Molly and kept my ears perked, listening for the slightest sound, a footstep, a door squeal. There was only the rain.
