The tip of the screwdriver pressed against the glass lens. Phillips-head. A flat-head would have been too difficult. I brought the screwdriver up and back down in one swift motion. It missed the camera and bounced off the back of the phone. Shit. I needed a hammer. There wasn’t one in my bedroom. There probably wasn’t one in the entire apartment. I was lucky to have even found the screwdriver.
My desk drawers were crammed with scorched scraps of tinfoil and empty lighters—nothing that could serve as a makeshift hammer. None of the books piling up on the floor would help either. I kicked a few to the side. Hidden beneath were several plastic straws, a small fake succulent, and a kitschy rock souvenir from one of the pacific islands. That might work. I picked it up to feel its weight. It was almost as big as my hand. Etched on top was the word “Tranquility.”
I repositioned the screwdriver against the phone’s camera, making sure the tip was dead-center, and slammed the rock down. The glass cracked outward but didn’t shatter. That was fine. It was a good start. With the lens compromised, I could just use the screwdriver to chip away at the protective covering. Once the opening was big enough, I dug into it—twisting and pulling out the tiny mechanics inside.
With the camera destroyed, no one could use it to watch me. I let out a sigh of relief and lay back in my chair. The tension I had been holding in my shoulders and neck released and fell away. I could finally relax. I took another bump of coke. There was no guilt or shame in it now—no one could see me anymore. That freedom was worth every broken camera and boarded up window.
Something screeched. I looked over to the window, where the sound came from. A clump of tape holding the piece of Ikea plywood to the frame peeled back. A crack of light snuck across the wall and over my face. This was the fifth time today. The damn thing wouldn’t stay put. I cracked my neck to the side and got up to search the floor for wherever I put the tape. If only I had screws, or even nails.
I tried pulling a long trail of tape from the dispenser, but it fell short. It was the end of the roll. I added the small piece to the growing mass anyways. At least the rest of the corners weren’t an issue. There were already too many problems to keep track of. Solving one only seemed to create more. I needed to lie down.
The silhouette of sweat was still there—outlining my sheets like a waning moon. I crawled on top of it. Dirt and grime didn’t matter to me much anymore. They were minor nuisances compared to the watching. Each day, it seemed like people came up with new ways to spy on me. Taking the time and effort to block them out was worth letting hygiene take a backseat. Light continued to seep through cracks in the plywood. It wasn’t much; the rest of the room was still dark. I was as removed from the world as I could possibly be.
Finally.
I reached for the drugs and flipped on some music. Chet Baker’s jazz trumpet tumbled through my speakers, dampened by the scattered mess of my room. It was almost a whisper by the time it got to my ears. Tranquility. I picked a random book from the floor to cut some lines on, taking the effort to make each row of powder line up perfectly. I snorted one and leaned back, letting my eyes close.
Another screech pierced the calm. I opened my eyes and, without moving my head, looked over at the window. The cheap plywood board hadn’t moved. It was still fastened tight. Before I could convince myself I had imagined the sound, it happened again. It was definitely a scream, but it sounded like cold metal ripping in half. My arms prickled and the feeling rushed up into my neck. Shit. It was coming from behind the board—outside the window. I put my book to the side and crept towards the noise.
One more yelp slithered in as I approached. I crouched to my hands and knees so I could crawl the rest of the way. Whatever it was, could it see through the cracks? Could it get in? I slid the tips of my fingers behind the plywood, bending it outward. The tape yawned as it peeled back. I was temporarily blinded by the light.
There was nothing immediately unusual. The view overlooked the next building over, separated by only the space of an alleyway. I studied each window. Most were shuttered and dark. Only one looked like it had its velvet drapes drawn open. I kept my eyes on it. The sound hadn’t reoccurred, and I couldn’t see inside, but I was still drawn to that window.
I watched it, unmoving. While I waited, Chet Baker played through two complete songs. The window remained opaque. My eyes couldn’t adjust. I kept looking until a dark cloud passed overhead. With the sun blotted out, I could finally see into the room. Three people stared back at me.
The plywood board snapped shut as I let it go, and my heart beat jumped. I could see it beating through my shirt. Fuck. I pressed myself up against the wall, terrified to even breathe. My throat tightened to suppress my breath. Did they see me? Shit, of course they did. Was there any way they could get in?
After a few moments, I allowed myself a small breath. On the other side of my room was one of my markers. The light blue one. It lay tucked in the corner. That might help, I thought. My hand trembled as I ran my fingers through my hair. Okay. I darted for the marker and safely repositioned myself in the corner. Nothing else moved. The room was still dark.
The marker smelled like rubbing alcohol when I took off the cap. I lifted up my jacket sleeve to find a bare patch of skin. There was no room left. I held my arm up in front of my face and twisted it around. It was completely filled.
I tried my other arm only to find the same thing. Smudged, blue circles covered the length of it—hand to bicep. I pulled my shirt off. Still no use. The circles continued, large and small over my entire torso. Each one was dotted with a single black pupil. I had drawn dozens of them—a collage of crudely drawn eyes. Charms. They were supposed to keep me safe.
I had to be running out of time by now. In desperation, I pressed the marker to my forehead and did my best to draw a complete circle. From outside the window, a door slammed. They were coming. All I needed now was a black marker. I got to my knees and started tossing books out of the way. There had to be one somewhere. I found CDs and crumpled receipts, but no more markers, not even a pen. I heard more doors slamming. How many of them were there?
I got to my feet and kicked at the clutter. An old textbook flew at the wall, knocking a small dent in it. Nothing I needed was here. I tipped my desk over in frustration, which knocked my lamp to the floor, and broke the already burnt out bulb. The door to my own apartment creaked opened. It was faint, but I heard it.
My heart pulsed harder. The only option I had was to drag the wooden frame of my desk in front of the bedroom door. It probably wouldn’t help, but I did it anyway. Once I had it pressed up tight, I collapsed beside it.
All sound stopped, like it was pulled from the air. I pierced my fingernails into my palms, waiting. Where were they? I looked around the room. The souvenir rock had ended up by my feet. I went to grab it and held it close to my chest. The silence twisted my lungs, forcing out a whimper. Something scratched the door behind me. I gripped the stone harder and closed my eyes.
Sound returned to the air with an elongated screech, the plywood dropped from the window, and the room flooded with light.