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I just wish they'd stop screaming

It all started when I was getting ready for bed, I had already closed my noise-cancelling curtains—an essential item when you live in an apartment above a busy street—and was sitting up in my bed writing in my journal. I had never been a big “journaler,” if that’s what you call it, but the isolation from the pandemic has been beginning to eat at me.
Ordering everything I need including groceries and working from home has left me with little reason to go outside, not that I would even if I wanted to. I've always had a weak immune system and I’m just too unwilling to risk it. I don’t even open the door for my delivery people, I just have them drop it outside of my apartment and wait by the door until I hear their softening footsteps leave my earshot.
My journal usually consists of very mundane things like what I ate, or what I heard in a podcast that day. The things I would say to bore a significant other. That evening I was going on a mini-rant about the plastic waste that’s included in most groceries, which was cathartic and entertaining to me. I was getting so into it that I could feel the start of a hand cramp.
Until I heard it.
A guttural scream cut through the scratch of my pen, ripping through the noise-cancelling curtains like a knife through lace.
The sound traveled like electricity in a split second straight into my heart causing me to jump and drop my pen. I had to take a moment to recompose myself, letting out a tight laugh that was more like a cough. I’ve lived in a city my entire life, the closer you live to downtown the more often you’ll see people that have been forced to live on the street due to misfortune or mental illness. Knowing that the source was just another one of these unfortunate souls, I tried to get myself back into my rant that no one except me would ever hear.
Except there it came again.
Louder. Somehow deeper. That terrible sound surrounded me as if trying to suffuse me with whatever trauma had led to that scream. I couldn’t resist this time, with my curiosity rising up like bile, I got out of my bed to see what sort of human could possibly create such a noise and pulled aside the curtain.
They were staring right at me.
Not at my building, at me. As soon as my curtain moved our eyes locked, meaning they were screaming with the full agony of a mother that just lost a child directly to my window. Directing the entirety of their unhinged energy at closed curtains, at a window with no evidence that anyone was even home or would ever open those curtains.
And, yet.
And yet I was home.
And yet I did open those curtains.
Being three floors up I couldn’t see her too clearly to say that her eyes contained any sort of lucidity or if they were as wild with fury as her scream, but still once we locked eyes it felt like ice water was injected straight into my spine. Bathed in yellow from the street lights, standing with her arms away from her body, standing directly in the middle of the street, we stared at each other. Her screaming had stopped, apparently successful in getting my attention, but the silence was now louder than the scream had ever been.
I quickly closed the curtain and moved to put my back against the wall next to my window, afraid that her gaze could pierce through the window like a bullet from a sniper. I realized I hadn’t been breathing since I opened the curtain and now my breaths came quick and rapid like the stylet of an eelworm.
I couldn’t help but helplessly ask a flurry of questions to no one. Does she know me? I tried to think of the dime sized photos of my various delivery drivers. Was there really no one around to take her attention? I know most people stay at home, but still it's a Friday night in downtown Los Angeles. Why were there no cars on the street? I knew I should be more calm, this was just one of those random events that can happen when you live in a city. Tonight I just happened to be on the receiving end of an unlucky moment. I just happened to be on the same street as this person and they just happened to be looking directly at my window.
But then my doorbell rang.
Maybe they just happened to guess my apartment number too.
I moved into my living room, staring at the trilling intercom. My landlord was never one to make any improvements to the complex unless absolutely necessary, so I had no camera feed to watch and only a high-pitched, bone-vibrating ringing to alert me of visitors, the sound coming from a schoolbell trapped in a box above my door. The doorbell repeated it’s cry again and again like the death throes of a house pet in the moments before it’s throat is torn out by a coyote.
I was frozen.
Unable to move, unwilling to go closer to the intercom and ask who it was.
Though why would I?
No one makes deliveries after midnight and there’s no one that would come to see me. I only talk to my friends if they text me on a whim, my coworkers only when necessary, and I’ve been making excuses to avoid calling my parents for no good reason at all. Thinking about it at that moment, it wasn’t since before the pandemic hit that I saw someone in person. But how long before that? I didn’t go home for Christmas, so maybe last summer? When did my brother come to visit me? Last year? Before that?
I was snapped out of this lonely epiphany by the abrupt end to the doorbell and the realization at the same moment that my door was unlocked.
I moved with complete abandon, slamming my shoulder painfully into the door, all reasonable explanations gone from my mind. As soon as I turned the deadbolt my door knob twisted and the door lurched forward. Still leaning against the door I closed my eyes, fear gripped my heart and began to squeeze out tears and a pathetic whimper part of me was glad no one was around to hear. I didn’t dare look out the peephole, too afraid that without my added body weight the door would break right down.
The door slammed into me, pushing me back. I heard something near the deadbolt crack.
Sudden pounding erupted from the door, coming as fast and loud as my heartbeat.
Relentless pounding. I pictured their fist slamming against the door, their hand bruising, finger bones fracturing from the impact, knuckles opening and leaving wet remnants of their presence.
I stepped back, a sort of zen-like awareness coming over me that there was nothing I could do anymore. No one would hear the deafening pounding and call for help, no one would leave their own apartment to investigate, no one to come and save me.
I stared at the few contacts in my phone, completely aware that it was too late at night for them to answer, almost no confidence that they would answer if it was earlier. I don’t even know what I would say, I only wish to hear someone else’s voice, to hear my own name, to hear that someone loves me.
So instead I sit at my computer, my only source of human contact in the past who knows how long and write this, what I expect are my final moments. My late night visitor has resumed screaming with inhuman strength, visions of their vocal cords splintering like the wood in my door frame fill my mind. I don’t know if anyone will read this or if anyone will care, but please tell your loved ones how much they mean to you, so you don’t end up scared and completely alone when a screaming stranger comes to break down your door.
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