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So, about an hour ago, I was sitting in the living room reading a book, winding down before bed, and there was a soft knock at my door.
I have decided that "people knocking at my door in the middle of the night" goes right up at the top of the list of Things Guaranteed to Freak Me The Fuck Out. I froze like a deer in the headlights, snagged my cell phone, and not-quite-ran into the bedroom, out of sight from the front door's window. Hello, adrenaline. How are you?
Twenty seconds later, the doorbell rang.
Hell.
There was always the dim possibility that my neighbor had locked herself out in the middle of the night, or something. Cell phone in one hand, sword in the other (shut up!), I crept toward the door and turned on the porch light.
Standing outside was a kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen. I asked him, through the door, if I could help him; my heart was still pounding a mile a minute. (Oh, wait, sorry. An hour later, it hasn't calmed down that much.) I only half-heard what he told me; something about his dad dropping him off somewhere, and him needing a ride. He asked if I could give him one; I, hardly able to think, answered, "I'm sorry, I really can't," and he wandered to another neighbor's house, presumably to rinse and repeat.
I'm sure I've done something wrong, here: Either I was just cased, in which case (hah) I should have called the cops and reported the incident... or I just left a fourteen-year-old-kid on the street without any help, in which case I am just plain slime. My suspicions drift toward the latter, since I was visible from the door when he first knocked.
Either way, I'm significantly freaked out. Every little sound draws my attention. Just the rather normal, if startling, sound of my dove falling off his perch in the dark, and floundering around the cage seeking purchase, sets me on edge... as though Ali Baba's forty thieves are all CREEPING UP ON MY HOUSE in the dark, following a big map with an 'X' over it that reads 'Stine lives here' or something. Yeah, right. I hate this so much. Ever since April there have been nights when I've been unable to sleep until my cats and I were locked in my bedroom, with a phone at my side. And I hate it.
Do I give the impression that I like living alone? It's a lie. I like my space, and sometimes I have to have time to myself, but I dislike living alone immensely. And lately, I've turned paranoia into an art form. Worse than my hatred of feeling like this at all is the idea that someone did this to me when they broke into my house before, and I've let them have this effect upon me.
Ugh.
I have decided that "people knocking at my door in the middle of the night" goes right up at the top of the list of Things Guaranteed to Freak Me The Fuck Out. I froze like a deer in the headlights, snagged my cell phone, and not-quite-ran into the bedroom, out of sight from the front door's window. Hello, adrenaline. How are you?
Twenty seconds later, the doorbell rang.
Hell.
There was always the dim possibility that my neighbor had locked herself out in the middle of the night, or something. Cell phone in one hand, sword in the other (shut up!), I crept toward the door and turned on the porch light.
Standing outside was a kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen. I asked him, through the door, if I could help him; my heart was still pounding a mile a minute. (Oh, wait, sorry. An hour later, it hasn't calmed down that much.) I only half-heard what he told me; something about his dad dropping him off somewhere, and him needing a ride. He asked if I could give him one; I, hardly able to think, answered, "I'm sorry, I really can't," and he wandered to another neighbor's house, presumably to rinse and repeat.
I'm sure I've done something wrong, here: Either I was just cased, in which case (hah) I should have called the cops and reported the incident... or I just left a fourteen-year-old-kid on the street without any help, in which case I am just plain slime. My suspicions drift toward the latter, since I was visible from the door when he first knocked.
Either way, I'm significantly freaked out. Every little sound draws my attention. Just the rather normal, if startling, sound of my dove falling off his perch in the dark, and floundering around the cage seeking purchase, sets me on edge... as though Ali Baba's forty thieves are all CREEPING UP ON MY HOUSE in the dark, following a big map with an 'X' over it that reads 'Stine lives here' or something. Yeah, right. I hate this so much. Ever since April there have been nights when I've been unable to sleep until my cats and I were locked in my bedroom, with a phone at my side. And I hate it.
Do I give the impression that I like living alone? It's a lie. I like my space, and sometimes I have to have time to myself, but I dislike living alone immensely. And lately, I've turned paranoia into an art form. Worse than my hatred of feeling like this at all is the idea that someone did this to me when they broke into my house before, and I've let them have this effect upon me.
Ugh.
