I covered my face and started whimpering. But nothing happened. A man grabbed my shoulder and asked me if I was okay and I was. I really was. I couldn’t believe it. He helped me get up. My feet were still shaking from the trauma I had witnessed. I felt something warm around my crotch area and that’s when I realized that I had urinated myself out of fear.
Mister Stephenson was gone, but he wasn’t gone for good. Someone like him finds a way around.
I hurriedly went back to my apartment. I opened the door and saw a bald man with one eye across my apartment. He was staring right at me. I shuddered. I was about to run once again, but Mister Stephenson was too fast. I let out a scream and blacked out, only remembering his one eye before the darkness had fully consumed me.
I dreamed of an eye. Only an eye. Looking around. Looking for something.
Maybe for my lost soul.
I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on my door. It was dusk. I was still wearing my suit from work. It had a stain on the crotch area; it was more visible when it had dried up. I had fainted on the floor and let me tell you that sleeping on the ground is not the best way to go. Aside for the hurting neck, you’ll have a splitting headache to come along with it. I got to salute the homeless people who tolerate doing such a thing.
The knock was insistent but I was more afraid in opening the door to only seeing Mister Stephenson waiting for me on the other side. So instead of opening it directly, I asked who it was.
“It’s Leslie, your next door neighbor.” The voice responded. It was a woman's voice, but I was still unconvinced. Maybe Mister Stephenson had a womanly voice. “I heard a scream coming from your apartment and then nothing for a while. I’m worried that something might’ve happened.” The voice added. She must’ve thought that I was murdered, which I think I was.
I was still able to stand up which means that I wasn't murdered or hurt at all. I grabbed the door handle and opened it halfway through. I was hiding the shame on my pants with the use of the door.
I saw a girl with clearly dyed red hair. She also had a ring on her nostrils. She was wearing thick rimmed glasses and I must say that she did look pretty. I mean she looked punk and all, but that didn't bother me. Don't judge a book by it's cover, my mother used to tell me when it comes to women.
I haven’t met her before and I surely hoped that she wasn’t my next door neighbor who screams and moans too hard at night, from the pursuit of pleasure or from the pain of nightmares, I may never know.
“Sorry, but you’re from what room?” I asked hesitantly.
“Uh room 237, the room right in front of you.”
She wasn’t the one. Whew.
“Uh yeah sorry, I kind of tripped once I got into the room and all. I didn’t think anyone would hear it.” I replied and added an awkward laugh to make it sound authentic.
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you hurt in anyway?” She said. She looked particularly concerned.
“Just my pride.” I replied and smiled. She smiled back.
“Oh anyways if there’s any problem, you can always call me Mister—“
“Danny. You can call me Dan.”
“Okay Dan. Call me anytime if you need help. I’m just right in front of your room.”
“Alright. Thanks Leslie. Have a goodnight.”
With that she left to the next room. She was pretty but too young for someone my age. I did go through life quite fast without even realizing that I have been single for a very long time. But almost everyone in my office is single. The rest were divorced. Some of them are even reaching their fifties while some are flat out in their fifties. Our position certainly shows what people we have become. I only recently turned thirty but I feel like I’m draining away. Maybe it’s an accountant thing.
If I was younger I would go for her. Or maybe if I was drunk and if have my self-esteem was higher than usual.
But there was a problem at hand and the problem had a name: Mister Stephenson.
I called up my psychologist on his private number and scheduled a meeting with him the next day.
Kristoffer’s clinic was filled and riddled by his many achievements in his field. A psychology major that had finished his doctorate degree just a year ago. You can’t miss any of his life story because it’s all over his clinic. Still, it makes me wonder why someone like him thinks that I have an Oedipus complex. Maybe it’s a Freudian thing.
