Mulberry bushes and tulips weaved through the fence,
as my footfalls hit the pavement toward my walk-up apartment.
I rummaged through my jacket pocket for the house key
But found only crumpled bills and a ball of lint.
I ascended the stairs—one, two...seventeen.
I looked out at the sea, dappled in light, lapping at the end of the lane.
Then, I spotted the key half-hidden under the doormat.
I slid it out, put it in the lock, and the latch loosened.
My head spun—I propped my hand against the wall.
The work day had thrown me into a lapse of fever.
I walked into the kitchen—opened the cupboard—
and turned over pill bottles in my hand.
I washed down two ibuprofen
with a cold glass of green tea.
Curious—there on the breakfast table,
illuminated in the light issuing from the bay window,
laid a loaf of bread as meager as the last supper.
I removed the knife from the loaf
and chipped off a piece like a meticulous sculptor.
The buttered bread dried out my mouth
and laid like a lump at the bottom of my throat.
I'd left the television on for the cats.
Odd—the set had been switched off,
and there on the coffee table,
laid a magazine turned to a page
whose headline read, "The Great Divide: Bipartisanism in Congress."
I decided it best to call it a night,
so I wrapped myself in a downy blanket
and headed to my bedroom.
Strange—the phone had been left off the hook
at the foot of the stairs,
sounding a dial-tone to nowhere.
I picked up the phone—ended the call—
and placed it gingerly on the hall table.
I turned to walk up the stairs,
holding onto the railing as I went.
But then something shifted in my head.
The hallway started to spiral—
Was that ibuprofen I'd taken?
I looked down from the head of the stairs
and saw my blanket spread on the floor.
It felt as if the serrated edge of the bread knife
were being drug up my spine.
I stumbled into the bedroom.
The taupe curtains swayed in the wind
coming in from the opened window.
Peculiar—had I wanted to air out the house
and forgotten to close it this morning?
I lied down.
The mattress cradled the crick in my neck
and massaged the stiffness in my joints.
A black dot appeared in my vision—
widened—then blotted out the room from view.
I awoke to a dial-tone.
The phone was calling out again—to nowhere
from the bedside table.
I ended the call and roused myself parallel to the headboard.
I stared in horror at the foot of the bed.
There intentionally laid the bread knife—
like a strip of awful magnesium.
I—slowly—peeled of the comforter
which clung to my perspiring legs.
I threw my feet over the edge of the bed,
and they hit the tile with a hard thud.
I stumbled over to the mirror
to examine my sickness up-close.
What I saw—burned into memory—
was the black hood of a cloaked figure.
I smashed the mirror,
ran down the stairwell,
and reached for the doorknob.
But the door wouldn't give.
My screams were as soundless
as sand through a sieve.
Mulberry bushes and tulips weaved through the fence,
as my footfalls hit the pavement toward my walk-up apartment.
I rummaged through my jacket pocket for the house key
But found only crumpled bills and a ball of lint.
I ascended the stairs—one, two...infinity.
I looked out at the sea, dappled in light, lapping at the end of the lane.
Then, I spotted the key half-hidden under the doormat.
I slid it out, put it in the lock, and the latch loosened.
