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Description
Evander wishes he could say it’s a relief when the nightmares finally start to subside, but he’d be lying. Staying awake almost seems worse than sleeping these days. When he’s awake, he sees things that aren’t there – flashes of movement along the periphery of his vision, phantom sounds echoing down the hallways and around the corners, light dancing behind closed doors and in the cracks of the floorboards. It’s frightening not being able to understand why his own home no longer feels safe.

His apartment is an uncharacteristic disaster, littered with dirty clothes, broken dishes, torn paper. He’d always been so meticulous about keeping everything in its proper place, but now he can’t muster the energy or focus to clean up after himself anytime he panics and drops a plate or a glass. He’s managed to drag himself into the café to work as often as he’s able, but the looks on his coworkers’ faces give away handily enough that he looks about as fragile as he feels. He tries to remind himself that no one is doing well these days, and that he’s not a special case, but after dropping one too many coffee cups with shaking fingers he thinks maybe it’s better he hide for a while.

He knows he’s lost it when he wakes up in a cold sweat and leaves his bedroom to see a white door standing at the end of short corridor that leads into the bathroom. He’s well aware of the fact that the door to his bathroom isn’t white. It’s always been brown, with a scratch running down the right side left by a previous tenant. He stands in the hallway, suddenly nauseous, staring at the bright white door that he knows shouldn’t be there.

The first time, he retreats and bars himself in his room for a good hour before finally mustering up the courage to check the hallway again. The door is back to normal, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

The relief is short-lived, though, because it happens again the next night. And the next, and the next, and when he finally gathers enough courage to approach, something seems to hold him back every time. He tries, thinking that maybe – just maybe – he might be able to end this nonsense by proving to himself that the white door isn’t real, and he thinks that perhaps every night he manages to draw a step closer before he’s overcome by cold terror and is forced to turn back.

It takes what feels like a lifetime before he’s finally able to grasp the doorknob and turn it, forcing the door open with all of his strength.

He’s briefly met with the unfamiliar image of a room he’s never seen before, so silent that he wonders for a moment if he’s gone deaf – he can’t even hear himself breathing. It seems old – older than anything he’s familiar with, ancient and quiet in the stillness. And then he blinks, and he realizes he’s standing in the bathroom, staring wide-eyed at his own reflection in the mirror over the sink.

Description
Evander wishes he could say it’s a relief when the nightmares finally start to subside, but he’d be lying. Staying awake almost seems worse than sleeping these days. When he’s awake, he sees things that aren’t there – flashes of movement along the periphery of his vision, phantom sounds echoing down the hallways and around the corners, light dancing behind closed doors and in the cracks of the floorboards. It’s frightening not being able to understand why his own home no longer feels safe.

His apartment is an uncharacteristic disaster, littered with dirty clothes, broken dishes, torn paper. He’d always been so meticulous about keeping everything in its proper place, but now he can’t muster the energy or focus to clean up after himself anytime he panics and drops a plate or a glass. He’s managed to drag himself into the café to work as often as he’s able, but the looks on his coworkers’ faces give away handily enough that he looks about as fragile as he feels. He tries to remind himself that no one is doing well these days, and that he’s not a special case, but after dropping one too many coffee cups with shaking fingers he thinks maybe it’s better he hide for a while.

He knows he’s lost it when he wakes up in a cold sweat and leaves his bedroom to see a white door standing at the end of short corridor that leads into the bathroom. He’s well aware of the fact that the door to his bathroom isn’t white. It’s always been brown, with a scratch running down the right side left by a previous tenant. He stands in the hallway, suddenly nauseous, staring at the bright white door that he knows shouldn’t be there.

The first time, he retreats and bars himself in his room for a good hour before finally mustering up the courage to check the hallway again. The door is back to normal, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

The relief is short-lived, though, because it happens again the next night. And the next, and the next, and when he finally gathers enough courage to approach, something seems to hold him back every time. He tries, thinking that maybe – just maybe – he might be able to end this nonsense by proving to himself that the white door isn’t real, and he thinks that perhaps every night he manages to draw a step closer before he’s overcome by cold terror and is forced to turn back.

It takes what feels like a lifetime before he’s finally able to grasp the doorknob and turn it, forcing the door open with all of his strength.

He’s briefly met with the unfamiliar image of a room he’s never seen before, so silent that he wonders for a moment if he’s gone deaf – he can’t even hear himself breathing. It seems old – older than anything he’s familiar with, ancient and quiet in the stillness. And then he blinks, and he realizes he’s standing in the bathroom, staring wide-eyed at his own reflection in the mirror over the sink.