The cursor blinks slowly and I sit motionless, bathed in the soft glow of my computer screen, my heartbeat picking up. Twenty minutes. The last message is still highlighted, the chat box believing it to still be unread. I click once and the bright blue changes back to its standard black. In another window, a different message pops up and I shift my gaze to see who it is. In a slow, controlled movement, I switch tabs and type a response. There is a timely reply back before a rapid back and forth, then a goodnight. Eighteen minutes. I begin to lightly tap my foot on the carpet, not attempting to stop the movement but careful to make as little noise as possible. Looking around my desk, I pick up a pen and click it twice in quick succession before putting it down. Seventeen minutes. I stare at the clock for a moment longer than necessary before finally moving my mouse to the red x button. The webpage disappears and my screensaver stares back at me. I sigh, glancing at the clock once more, before shutting down my computer.
Turning off the desk lamp, I become aware that my foot has not stopped tapping. Nor has my heartbeat slowed. I check my phone just in time to see the time change. Sixteen minutes. I move out of my chair, carefully placing it back before feeling in the complete darkness for my next source of light. My fingertips brush up the cool of my iTouch case and lifting it to my face, I click the home button. It’s too bright and I quickly unlock it to make it dimmer before getting dressed. Of their own accord, my eyes slide over to the four digits and two letters: Fifteen minutes. Gathering the clothes I’ve already laid out, I step into my sweatpants and tie the drawstring as tight as possible. I remind myself of a promise before pulling off my t-shirt. My hair tumbles down my back and I shiver once before quickly putting on the layers of tank tops for the night.
I shift my weight to lean for the coat hooks. Plucking the topmost one, I take a step and the floorboards creak, freezing me in place. I gingerly put my foot down, much to the protest of the wood underneath the carpet. As I do so, I slip on the hoodie, carefully zipping up the material. I shiver once more before searching the bed again for my key, headphones, and phone. My heartbeat seems louder in my ears and I try my best to cool my burning cheeks by thinking of mundane things, such as how to spell “rainbow”.
Not daring to glance at the glowing time on my phone, I pad to the door and slowly open it, keeping the handle firmly in place as I step outside the boundary line. Palms slick, my shaking hands close the door and I quickly wipe them on my jacket when the task is done. Turning to face the hallway, I shimmy to the side before doing a little leap to the threshold of the bathroom. From there, I must make another light bound to the edge of the stairs less than twenty inches away. Landing precisely on toes of my right foot, I plant my hand on the side of the stairwell. The next step is crucial: Stepping as softly as I can on the left most part of the second stair down, I must precede without using the banister. My hands become sweaty again and I make my first step. The wooden stairs moan and I stop, petrified, heart thumping a rhythm in my head. I suddenly become hyperaware of my own breathing. I strain above the decibels to pick up any change from behind me. Several long seconds later, there is nothing for my ears to detect and I venture on. I dare not think about what I’ve done and I finish my trek faster than intended.
Arriving at the front door, I pause once more of my own desire to check one last time that I am moving through a graveyard. The sound of sweet silence is only broken when a familiar beat reminds me of why I am doing this. On tile now, my feet glide to where I stored my Converse earlier that day. Slipping my shoes on, I regard the door. Calm washes over my thumping chest and I step forward. The first part is easy: the lock slides easily under my hand, changing from horizontal to vertical. The second part, the most dangerous part of all, is the actual opening of the door. I wipe my hands one last time before placing my hand on the knob. I bite my lip then turn it. It opens, but not without the creaking whoosh I’ve have grown accustomed to hearing in the dead of night. I take a breath and step out into the near freezing blackness, closing the door as quietly as allowed by the front door. I grab out my phone, my slowly numbing fingers fumbling with the buttons.
Two minutes.
I take off across the grass and into the moonlit streets.
