Day 3

08Jul08

The locks have been changed. I doubt its utility if the unseen visitor is already inside the flat. I was surprised to find volumes on the internet detailing how people had been living in other people’s flats for half a life time. I searched the whole house yesterday night. Thoroughly.

The fear is still around. I feel like being watched, my movements being noted, an appreciation or a disapproval meeting my actions. I still sleep with the knife under the pillow. A couple of nights ago, when the lights were out, I heard footfalls. This time I was too scared to investigate. I just locked the door of my room and stayed put, half expecting hands to tear through the wood and close on my neck, just like in the million movies they keep showing on the TV.  It didn’t happen though. The burden of an apprehensive expectation is heavy. It tires one’s spirit and wears down one’s passion. And it triggers off a flood of sweat too. I realised it then. I never use the word sweat with men, as pigs are supposed to sweat; men can only perspire. But now, I’m the pig, fit for sweating shamelessly in my sty. Dreadful scenes from horrible movies flashed before me. My timorous self wilted under the inner attacks and I found myself lying by the door in the morning.

Returning home is becoming an impossibility now. With a dying vegetable for a neighbour, the whole apartment seems like The Hostel. While leaving for work yesterday, I happened to catch the eye of that repulsive man who lives a storey above. He gave a smile, not one of those warm and comforting ones, rather a sly smile. A sardonic leer… as if he knew how disturbed I was. That smile was actually a laugh, a demonic laugh, declaring a sadist pleasure in screwing up others’ lives, deriving satisfaction from their plight. I avoided his gaze and rushed down the stairs. I could feel his eyes on me even as I walked away. I dared not turn back.

If I had a choice, I wouldn’t return home. But I have to, to check if things still get moved around. If the changed locks don’t work, I don’t know what to do. The despair is eating me up… i’ve hit rock bottom. They say when you are at the bottom, the only way you can go is up. But what if the bottom houses a quicksand? Would one still go up?

Filed under: Crap, Events, Experiences, Fiction, Frustration, General, Insanity, Longings, More Crap, Suffocation, The Dark Side, Uncategorized   |  
Tags: Madness, Life, Despair, 101, Fear, Scary, The Apartment, On the run, Being watched, Neighbours, Imagination, Intuition, Frightened