Fallow State

A bitter taste crawls down my throat while I’m curled up on a thrift store patio chair on my back porch, smoking a Newport menthol. I don’t normally do this, for fear of being lectured by my roommate, but I’m home alone right now. After taking one last drag, long and slow, I stub out the cigarette on the antique table my great aunt gave me. Though small, the round, black smudge of ash left behind on the white tile fills me with gloom. Regretful, I try to rub it away with my thumb but it only smears, covering more of the intricate floral design painted on the tabletop. Grimacing, I wipe my hand on my sweatpants and stand, making a mental note to get rid of all the evidence later.

            I turn away from the screened-in view of the woods behind my apartment and start to go inside but in the instant I touch the handle of the sliding glass door, a bright flash of lightning illuminates the world outside my porch, followed almost instantaneously by an ear-splitting crack of thunder. I flinch, startled, and the sky opens to reveal a cascade. Heavy sheets of water fling through the air, violent and unruly.

            I appreciate the storm. The misty haze that envelops me, combined with the soothing sound of rain pounding the ground outside, fogs my mind and I am overcome with an urge to lie down.

            Once I’m safe in my room, I collapse on my bed, limbs outstretched, and listen, intently listen, as if the downpour outside is telling me its secrets if I only try hard enough to hear them. After a while, I fall asleep.

* * * * * *

            Later that night I awake in what seems like total darkness, for a few seconds. Then my eyes adjust, allowing for the slowly flickering glow from the fluorescents outside on the stairs to filter through the blinds. I hate those lights.

            I roll over onto my side, turning away from the window, and hope that I can just go right back to sleep without sitting up or checking the time.

            When I first hear it, I’m so close to being asleep that I think I could be dreaming, but then the growling noise outside intensifies and my eyelids fly open. Confused, I lie still for a long moment while what sounds like a dog emits a low, rumbly growl on the other side of the window.

            I live on the third story of an apartment building, nestled in the middle of six other units and up two flights of stairs, so I can’t figure out why a dog would be hanging out in my hallway. The dog may have been trying to get out of the storm from earlier, but I don’t hear rain now. I wonder if it belongs to a neighbor.

            Groggy, I search for my phone on the bed for a little while before I finally remember it’s in my pocket. I discover that it’s almost five in the morning. Now I’m annoyed that I slept so long, or else not long enough.

            Going slow, desperately hoping I won’t be jump-scared, I crawl over to the window by my bed and lift up a slat in its blinds so I can peek through. I scan the hallway outside and, to my relief, see nothing out of the ordinary.

            I fall back on the bed, trying to muster the energy to run and grab that cigarette carton from the back porch before anyone sees it, but then I hear a strange scratching noise coming from the hall. It seems suspiciously close and very motivated, like something scraping and digging its way into my bedroom wall with sharp claws.

            Now I’m nervous, picturing all types of creatures outside: raccoons, bears, coyotes. Either way I won’t be able to go back to sleep when I don’t know what’s going on, so I peek out the window again.

            My window is dirty, dusted with a layer of pollen, but I can just barely make out a section of the floor outside. I think I see a shadow move right at the edge of my field of vision but I’m not sure so I wait a moment to see if it will happen again. When it doesn’t, I back away from the window and start quietly climbing out of bed.

            I step into my slippers and then retrieve the baseball bat in my closet from its hiding place behind the shoe shelf. I try to exit my room silently, but the door makes an obnoxious creaking sound when I open it.

            I don’t hear any more noise coming from outside, so I sneak across the apartment, tiptoeing, and peer through the peephole on the front door. Eye to the glass, one hand gently pressed against the wood, I look and listen again for any sign of something or someone outside.

            Unable to handle the silence anymore, I unlatch the door and wrench it open, letting out a breath of anxious anticipation. Gripping the bat with both hands, I look around the hallway wildly, head swiveling left and right as I search for a threat. There is nothing. Whatever had been making the scratching sound was gone and I can see no damage to the wall from where I stand in the doorway.

            Confused but resigned, I go inside and latch the door. After slipping out to the porch and retrieving my cigarette from earlier, I scurry back to my bedroom where I eat some weed gummies, turn on the TV, and wait, worried and exhausted, for sleep.