My Name is Human [hiatus]

Chapter 2

It's not Joan's imagination. She holds her breath, but she hears that of another in a hotel room where she's supposed be alone.

She backs herself into a corner by the bed, an instinct developed by the in-person confrontations during the doxxing, and turns to God. She texts, "There's someone in my room, in my closet."

God responds.

He's not there to hurt you.

Joan nearly laughs at the absurdity of God's loose interpretation of reassurance, especially as the lights flicker out and the room is draped in darkness. The lights from the streets and buildings outside also fade out, one by one. Only the phone in Joan's hand provides illumination. An unsettling silence trickles down Joan's ears, save for the deep breathing coming from the closet.

In, out.

In, out.

Innnnnn, outtttttt.

Joan's exhausted pulse does one more frantic lap around her body. She could make it to the main door in few leaps, but she'd need to pass the closet to get there. There's no latch preventing whoever is inside from reaching an arm out to block her way.

The phone chirps a text alert.

Rolling brownouts from the second major flood to hit the D.C. area in five years.

This hotel's backup generator is out of service, too. No repairs. Labor dispute.

The lights struggle to return, but they ultimately fail. A commotion outside the hotel room signals curious guests entering the hallways. Joan wonders if they realize that the electronic locks won't accept their key cards in a power outage.

Another chirp.

Watch for these little inconveniences. You'll start to understand the bigger picture.

Frustrated, Joan taps hard, one letter at a time, on the phone's screen. She writes, "Small picture: there is still a person in my room."

He's there to motivate you.

Inching away from the corner, Joan reaches one hand toward a pen on the nightstand by the bed and uses the other to text, "Wut?"

He will keep you moving in the right direction.

Joan's fingers find the pen. Thankfully, it's not too cheap. The self-defense classes she enrolled in after one of the doxxers paid a visit focused on the pragmatic. Pens are ubiquitous, innocuous and add inches to reach. A tip in the eye is enough to drop anyone. That's the theory. She's never tested it.

Returning to the corner, Joan texts, "He was the one in the sedan. He kicked down my door."

Yes.

He will keep his distance unless needed.

It's imperative that you not look at his face.

Joan could've guessed the first two lines, but the third one catches her by surprise. "Why?" she texts.

You would not know how to process what you see.

"But what about other people? Can they see his face?"

Yes.

"Just not me."

Right.

Do not, under any circumstances, open the closet door.

Of course, that's exactly what Joan decides to do.