The Butterfly Effect

week 1

I wake up as usual and go to the window, someone sends something out everyday so I just check for the flag to be up or down. The flag was down which was strange.
It's only 7 am anything put in couldn't possible be picked up already. "Unless nothing was put in;" I think to myself and use it as a reassurance that nothing has come.
I go downstairs to the same food I cook with the same temperature on the same stove top. Everything feels.... The same; theres nothing that has really changed even if it feels so much like it should have. Melancholy, really? More like bittersweet. They mean similar things, I just like the 2nd one better. The stove eye is turned on and then i go to the caburds, did I turn the stove top on? I think I did but I'll go check in case. I began to walk over there letting my hands slide across the cuberd top and around all the pots on it. Scraping it across the cooking books to see if the plastic covers would flick the pages.
Did I do it right, I know there's no wrong was to walk. It just feels to much the same, maybe if I step big and then make a small one. That feels better. The stove top is on, I grab a pot and fill it up with water, not to 2 cups, or to 1 and a half, but in between. There's no label but I feel when it's right. I get ramen, open the pack and tear it into 4. I place the noodle in the pan, wait. Its the same cycle I do everyday, yet differently. Sometimes I fill it up less, sometime I use the 2nd stove eye instead of the 1st. Sometimes I can't get up and just skip eating, it happens alot actually. Today's a big day, I finally get to go to the store. Last time I was in a store of any kind, I had a nervous shutdown. I don't know why. I'm just particular, that's what everyone says. I'm completely okay, nothing wrong with me. Just *particular*. My "must be right" motive contunues to my appearance, sometimes I'll cut off tiny pieces of my hair just to ease my irritation of it. Its so bad after, once I cut of half my bangs. This makes me feel like my hair is right, even though it's shit. To put it kindly, I think their wrong. I would never tell them that, who am I to say I know more about some internal mental thing about myself. That's sarcasm, I know there's something up, that's why I am trying to get something in the mail. Documents I can fill out, maybe after, I might be getting a doctor's appointment. Just thinking about that has me worried I did get something in the mail. I should go check. I'm going to go check. I get up and get to the door, twisting the nob twice, once right, once left. Just twisting to to the left more, so it opens. I put one foot on the first step, and then put the other, and using the opposite foot that I previously used, I step down another. I navigate down my stairs, trying to make sure none of my foot hangs over the edge of the stairs.
None of my family is home, good enough for me because they just make fun of this. I go from porch to a gravel drive way, Walking on it for a bit before making it to a part where the grass overtook the gravel. Getting further in the yard I see it. A brown bag, the corner just peeking through a gap in the main box door. This anxiety distracts me for a second. What could it be, anything? Well it's sure not my doctors papers,
I go to open it, very slowly. I get the door open and pull the bag out, almost dropping this thing. Whatever is in it's heavy. Halfway hoping it's a US postal service mishap, I look to see if it's a wrong mailbox. My name is on it. I have ordered anything. I look around to make sure no ones watching. Focusing on the little things, a car parked down the block, a window open, or someone else also checking mail at an odd time. It all scares me. Causing a rush for the door. Forgetting about any patterns in this life or death moment. I'm a little over dramatic. Getting the door open and going inside, I sit at a table and put the bag down. This bag is more like an envelope, I notice tiny things, a chipped corner, or a bleeding color from some ink. I slowly open it, riping just the top. Inside is a- rag. A dirty rag. I push it deep into the envelope and notice a note. I pick it out and see this is were the inks color bleed. It looks like it was wrote on by a sharpie. I open the corners of this folded note, only to reveal a letter, 'i'. Wrote in locker case and looks like the person held the marker to the page too long. I'm officially fucking creeped out, I think to myself. I stare at the rag and decide to look at it for anything. It looks like it was shoved in dirt, or most likely mud. Wrote on the rag in this mud looking stuff was another letter, 'C'. I run to the door and lock it. This is a sick mind game and I'm not doing it. Whoever I pissed off really should go away. I grab a knife and run up to my room leaving everything out on the table. I get some stuff and hide in my closet, shutting it and locking the door. Its very tiny but I have it as a second bed. Sometimes I'll get to scared or anxious and I'll have to go somewhere, and my family is never home. So I made my own space. That's why I'm homeschooled, anxiety. My family tries to support me but I would rather it not be done. They always operate on 'fixing' and 'not working with' which really makes things worse. I have a little panic bag they don't know about. It has some stress toys, an extra phone charger, gum, a bag of expired apple flavored hard candy, and now a kitchen knife. My bag is always on me and rule number 1 of trying to defend from a killer is to not give them a heads up. I don't want them to know my weapon and be able to plan knowing what I have. So far I only have 'i' and 'c'. This seems like and overreaction. Everyone says I overreact, maybe this is nothing. I'm trying to rationalize the situation so I can feel safe. Eventually I do, and I decide to get out of the room. Unlocking and opening the door slowly, I look down the hall which is visible from my closet door. Everything looks fine so I come out. I rush back down stairs to the stuff on the table. It looks like supplies used to do drugs. Not wanting my family to have their own speculations and further think I'm a part of it, I clean it up. I put the rag in the envelope and move the note of the table. It left some marker smear. Whoever wrote this really soaked it. I rub one finger over the writing and it's dry. I look at the smeared ink and see a blob at first. I keep looking and eventually see another letter. It's a 'u'. 'ICU'. It's only then I remember I didn't close the door when I went to check the mail, but it was closed when I went to go back in. Someone's in here with me, and I just locked them in.