Your flatmates are pretty awful to live with. Not the ones who blare music all night long or leave their rubbish outside. No, these are the ones who deal drugs, get into fights and carry knives everywhere they go. At first you just tried to avoid them. When you heard the bickering you would take a different path or decide not to go shopping that day. You could just get the milk tomorrow. Some days were worse than others though – once there was a big fight between two gangs and you could hear everything – the punches, the screams, the cries, the vomit and the blood. You could hear women’s cries in the midst of low-pitched snarls and threats that made you shut your eyes and dig deeper inside your duvet.
It gets worse. The fights happen in the day time when they only happened at night before. The threats become more violent and the fights last longer. You’re pretty sure some people have died – no one could survive the sort of injuries you hear. You stop going to the shops. You start to hoard snacks in your room instead. How could you step outside knowing what’s out there? You think about ringing the police but the threats that you hear outside your window – now almost every hour – make you reconsider. Maybe they’ll calm down after a while. Maybe your neighbour has just had a rough few days and the group – a drug gang? A pimp? – will disperse soon.
And then they say your name. They say it again. And again. And again. It wasn’t a mistake. They know you are there.
‘I’m going to kill you.”
Shit. They know you’ve been listening in. They know you’ve been hearing their secrets, their drug dealing and knifings. Shit, shit, shit. What do you do? You’ve heard them kill people before – you remember the screams of the young girl as you heard fist after fist smash into her skull. Oh god. You are going to die.
And so you become trapped in a room barely larger than two football goal posts. There is a small window that juts out of the wall, but otherwise you are cut off from the outside world. Or so you pray.
They threaten you everyday now. With every second comes the fear that they will break in and get you. The screams tear through your ears as the fighting continues below. Sometimes new voices are added, low pitched grumbles that make you think of big men with knives.
It’s bizarre how quickly they take over your life. Every movement has to be calculated to make sure they do not hear you. Sometimes they are in the building and those days you have no choice but to hide beneath the covers and hope they cannot hear your breaths. Even when they are outside you know they continue to lurk beneath your window, as if they know you are present just a few metres above. You hear your name shouted in the midst of threats more often now, and there is no doubt about it now: they are coming to get you. Should you make a run for it or hide in your room and hope things die down?
You stop leaving the room. You have enough snacks stored that you can last for weeks if need be. The racketing gets louder as they move closer to your room. You have no idea if your flatmate let them in or if it’s someone’s idea or a joke. Ha fucking ha.
You have to time your runs to the toilet. It becomes a careful act of not making too much noise and pretending you’re not there. It doesn’t always work. Yesterday one of the older men roared as you raced towards the bathroom, shouting profanities that could only have been meant for you. No wonder the sleep doesn’t come with such monsters lurking outside.
The days turn into blinks of silence and fear. You hear their footsteps on the wooden floors as they laugh at your meager existence. They know where you are now. There’s no where you can hide. Every second becomes a bounding heartbeat that squeezes up your throat. Every minute turns into a nightmare that just won’t let you leave.
The first knock on the door wakes you from a broken sleep. At first you’re not sure if it was part of your dream. The second knock confirms your fear: they have found you.
“Hey, you alright in there?” says a loud male voice. You can hear mumbling in the background. They’ve come as a group. Shit, what do you do? There’s no where to hide now. You could crawl into the wardrobe but that gives you even less room to escape if they find you. The windows don’t open wide enough for you to jump out. The space under the bed won’t fit your physique. What do you do? More knocking, this time louder and with a clear message: get out or else.
“Hey mate, we haven’t seen you in ages. Just wanted to make sure you were okay, yeah?” says the male voice again. No mutterings follow this time. Only silence.
You should have known this day was going to come. How could they not have noticed you lurking by the window, listening into all their conversations? You know all about the arguments they’ve been having and the fights that have ended in bloodshed. You know the secrets they have kept under the shadow of the building, and now they’ve come for their vengeance.
More knocking, now with greater speed.
“Alright, I’m coming,” you yell before you can stop yourself. You can’t go on like this any longer. You know you have no choice. You got yourself into this mess and there is no other way out.
Outside the muttering is back but you ignore it as you prepare yourself. You grab the only protection you can find in your pathetic little hovel and face the wooden door that has protected you all this time. Your hand shakes as you unclick the lock – when was the last time you ate? – and the door swings in without resistance, introducing you to the gang you have been following all this time.
You have no time to fully take in the scene – the adrenaline that has been building up in your muscles unleashes with the energy that has kept you alive up to now. With a shout that takes over, you swing your weapon with no aim in sight. You just need to get away, please god, just away from these people. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to listen in you think to yourself as you battle your way out of your room. You meet occasional resistance against your shield and continue to pound against anything that comes your way; just get me out, get me out, get me out you scream inside your mind. The rest of the scene is a blur; your senses have receded and fear takes over, yearning for an escape – yearning to live.
You fight – you fight for your life. Out of the doors and down the stairs, racing past groups of people who are drawn by the shouts and screams until the fresh air hits you at last. But you do not stop. You race on past buildings and trees, your heart thundering in your throat as the adrenaline pushes through your veins. On and on until the people recede and are replaced by trees. On and on into the recesses of the park, the wind buffeting leaves onto your path as your senses return and your fear dampens down. You look around you. You are alone. You are safe. You take yourself off the path and into the crowdedness of the trunks. The countless branches shade you from the night sky so that soon you are covered in darkness. Rest here for the night and then go to the police in the morning you think to yourself. You have brought nothing with you – no phone, no food, no water. You will have to make do. One of the trees offers a human-shaped hollow which you accept with gratitude, and you feel the adrenaline washing out of your body as you sit and listen to the wind, relishing in the freedom of being alive.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Sir, wake up.”
You open your eyes and are confused by the sight. Why is your bedroom so cold? It doesn’t take long for the last few hours to hit you and by the time you are fully awake you meet the eyes of someone who looks like they could use some sleep as well.
“You’re under arrest, sir.”
Under the glow of the torches you can make out the smart uniforms and badges. The faces look like marble as blank eyes look back at you. They give you room as you stand up and brush off the dirt and leaves that have made a home inside your clothes. You are too tired, too hungry, too worn out to argue. To do anything but follow. You don’t ask why you’re under arrest or where you are going. You don’t check if they are real police officers. You know you have no choice. That group – that gang – must have been more powerful than you realised. They’re probably a drug gang with close connections with the police. God, what if you’re going to be trafficked? You haven’t spoken to your Mum and Dad for over a month now. And what about your little sister? Will they ever know what happened or will you just be listed as a missing person for the rest of their days? Such thoughts pass your dazed eyes as you sit in the back of the police car and let the city wash by. You don’t notice the ambulances or groups of people gathered in the streets. You’re too far inside your own mind.
The next few hours are a haze. Is it morning or night? What day is it? What month are we in? It’s only now, in the peace contained inside four, concrete walls that such questions arise in your dampened brain. For once no thoughts zigzag across your eyes, no screams or shouts resound within your ears. For once, you are alone.
Every so often a man in uniform will open the door and offer you a drink. Each time you freeze as the memory of the gang beneath your window returns to your mind. You know they cannot be far. They will find you.
It must have been a few hours before the lady comes to see you. The glaze of the sun has moved to the corner, the only evidence that time still continues to pass. You could be in your own little world for all you know. You wonder what is happening back at the house; if the gang are still at large.
The lady smells nice and sits next to you. Someone who has actually managed to come close to you and not put you in handcuffs. She is also the only one who seems genuinely concerned about the gang. She asks you lots of questions and you unleash everything that has been happening the past few weeks. The conversations you eavesdropped – you didn’t mean to, you swear – and the drug trading you overheard, the fights and arguments that went on all night long. You explain how the gang found out you were listening, how they would come after you night and day, waiting outside your building to break you for something you did not mean to do. You don’t know how long you’ve been talking; all of the emotions you didn’t even know you had begin to bubble up in front of this lady, this kind, nice-smelling stranger, and all you can do now is sit in silence as your body becomes overwhelmed. Outside of this hurt and pain, this suffering and despair, you cling on to the softness of her voice as her speech sings in the bare walls of the cell. Your fuddled brain skips over words like custody and manslaughter, until she leans in towards you and looks you in the eye.
“What you are experiencing isn’t real,” she says.
“You’ve been going through a psychotic episode and I’m here to help you get out of it.”
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