The View from a Room

-With every word read; a stolen glimpse of my life


I
Hands down his pants; I sat across from him. Staring. Trying not to stare. Staring.
I felt the urge to tell him that I saw him. But foreseeable danger lurked beyond the door and drowned that desire. I sat there. There I sat. Eyes being gravitationally pulled to the one region I was trying so hard to be blind to. Hypnotized. I sat paralyzed.
I am not sure when I fell asleep in a pile of clothes on my floor, but I just woke up in a puddle of urine. I have an urge to go into the living room and sit across from Claudio and just look at him while he looks at me. I want to see what he sees. I want to see myself reflected back at me through his gaze. I need to see what other people see.
What does he see when he looks at me? Is that what he sees when he looks at me, an empty vessel that satisfies a carnal urge? I don’t want a role that integrated me into society. I especially don’t want that one.
I feel as though the urine is beginning to coalesce and I find it hard to remove my hand from the puddle. I am stuck.
I go back to sleep.
II
The sun in the yellowed morning colors the corner of my bed. The light woke me up; I made my way under the covers, seeking refuge from the blaring sun. It is early and I didn’t get a good night’s sleep. I don’t know why or how I fell asleep on the floor. All I know is that I must have been very tired because I am quite particular about where I sleep. The floor isn’t usually an option.
Today I am going to the market. I have to buy the few ingredients I need for tonight’s dinner. I am not making anything special and I am going to be eating alone, but I still find it necessary to buy all the required produce for a meal I have been craving for days. Tonight I would finally indulge. Avocadoes, balsamic vinegar, cheese; I went over the list in my head. I didn’t want to write a list for fear that being organized would classify me as a neurotic person of some sort. Today I would go to the market and buy impulsively or, on a whim- but I will secretly continue to make lists repeatedly in my head.
I reached for my housecoat so as to cover my nightwear, walked over to the peephole, scanned the common space and spotted Claudio. He never leaves the apartment much less the living room. I could swear he sits there all day in order to monitor my every move. He acts as though he doesn’t notice me, but I know he is keeping a close watch. At first I thought he worked from home or maybe he just enjoyed solitude. I soon realized he didn’t fear the outdoors nor was he employed- he was a compulsive gambler- he spent the day researching teams online and calling friends for loans. Either way, he sat in the dark, from morning to night. I felt as though he was on watch, always sitting there waiting for my next move. It was invasive and to be quite honest, I enjoy privacy and therefore found it hard to move around our apartment at my leisure with him in the way at all times. In the dark he sat, eyes whiter than light, piercing through the thick air of disturbing self-consciousness that he thrusts upon me daily, nightly, hourly…
I felt as though he sat there in a stake out, to take note of my every move. He noticed me. I noticed him noticing me. I walked the corridor with my body pressed against the wall to get to the bathroom without catching Claudio’s attention. I didn’t exactly walk on tiptoe but I definitely crept over to make the least amount of noise possible. I didn’t want to take my chances that I might have someone see me.
This daily routine hasn’t taken much out of me; if nobody were home my actions wouldn’t be an issue- they wouldn’t need to be monitored nor recorded. But because there is someone around, it forces me to not only take every action into consideration but I also have to ensure that they go unnoticed. Claudio should never have any insight into my life. I can’t have him know me.
Brush my teeth, wash my face, floss, pee. Claudio’s toothbrush is dry. How long has he been up? The kettle in the kitchen just whistled barely a few moments ago. He hasn’t brushed yet. I flush the toilet; he will for sure hear the water from the cistern fill up. Dead giveaway. I turn off the light, open the door and walk along the wall back to my room. I open my room door, let myself in, close the door and turn on the light. Fresh Garlic, ginger, green peppers. I know I am going to forget something, I should write this down, but I refuse.
I hold my flip flops in my hands and once again glide along the hallway wall and make my way to the door. I place my sandals on the floor, put them on, open the door and just as I am about to close it behind me I wave to Claudio and whisper “Adiós.” Inaudible, he barely hears me. He acts as though he hasn’t noticed that anyone has walked out of the apartment. Maybe he can pretend that he doesn’t notice me when I am around, but there is no way he doesn’t notice when I am gone.
We are strangers who live together. We share a space together. We know nothing about one another yet we know the intimate private details of each other’s routine living. I know what he eats, how much and when. I hear him burp when he is done. Jalapeños, lemons, olives. I know how long he spends in the bathroom and the amount of time he speaks on the phone. I also noticed that he tells his friends every single thing that goes on in his life. He spares no details. I don’t think he believes this as an act of sharing personal information. I say this because I don’t think he considers such information tale telling. For example, whenever he has company he hides his books. Oddly enough we share one thing in common, I guess: we both agree that some things are more revealing than others. I see him scratch himself and I know his sleeping habits. We know nothing about each other yet I know him quite well. I am fairly observant and therefore have gotten to know Claudio not by conversation and anecdotal exchange but rather through careful deliberation of his way of life. He can’t possibly know much about me bearing in mind I camouflage my every move and make myself invisible to his possibly watchful eye. I guess he could gather that I am private and like to be unseen, unnoticed and unknown. Or maybe I am successful and he actually doesn’t notice me.
I know he sees me. He definitely sees me. I can feel it.
III
I entered the dark tunnel that connects the city underground. Normally I would walk the length of the way home, but the bags I filled at the market are heavy in my hands. I make my way down the stairs and fall in line with the swarms of people that walk in, out, around and through the subway stops. I stop in my tracks, lay my three white bags on the floor between my legs and fish through my purse for my Carta Métro. I bend down to pick up my bags. I stop and look up, look right, look left; has anyone been watching me? I look around and see a tanned woman with long dreads sitting on a small stool playing the guitar. Did she see me? I stare at her until she finally looks my way- as soon as she glances my way I search her eyes for a look of recognition. I stare to ensure she hasn’t seen me- she looks right through me.
I vigilantly continue my way through the crowded subway stop. Too many people- makes me unable to keep watch on everyone. At any given moment, any one of these people can be looking at me, watching me and I wouldn’t know. I try to ward off voyeurism by keeping close watch of my surroundings.
I watch intently and keep myself safeguarded, all while trying to maintain an air of anonymity. I don’t do anything that will have me picked out of the mass; I am one among many. Eliminate me from this day and the day would go unchanged. In order to guarantee that I go on living excluded from the pack, I keep an eye out for those who try to involve me- I keep my distance and steer clear of inclusion. If I am seen or noticed then I have failed. As little exchange as possible- that is what constitutes a good day.
The subway cart blows wind as it pulls into the station. People get off, people get on. Switch. On. Off. I step onto cart number one. I like to sit in the first cart that way nobody can sit behind me. Nobody.
I scan the area. Quick check: shirt unbuttoned- green. Bag gripped between his hands, sitting on the floor, strap on his knee. Chocolate sweat suit, pink purse- talking. A lot. Black short sleeve- wristwatch and rings. Three rings. Someone should tell him that wearing three rings is pushing it. He seems interested in what chocolate jump suit has to say. Or he’s filling time. Long ride. The whole section is filled with people- all the same but trying to be different; trying to stand out. I see a young woman looking around, bored; she didn’t bring a book or music to keep her busy. She is forced to be involved in her surroundings and take note of the people around her. I keep my sunglasses on- I don’t want her to notice me.
“Próxima estación: Juame.” The announcement sounds and three people from my cart get up and make their way to the doors. They are getting off at the next stop. I watch the door to keep tabs on who is coming on as these people step off. Large woman, large breasts, lots of cleavage; sweating. She is wearing a hat. A heavy man walks on closely behind her. He is staring at her. He doesn’t watch where he is going; he walks in rhythm with her. He finds a seat. Across from me. He places his bags on the floor, strap wrapped around his knee so that nobody can steal it from him. He is sitting next to a man who looks as though he has been riding the subway for hours. He is sweating. He has his bags placed on his lap. He has brown hair. His head has not moved since I sat down. I can’t see where he is looking because like me, he hasn’t taken his sunglasses off. He is sweating. I am willing him to change directions- turn your head- turn your head. A light flickers and I catch a glimpse; he has been staring at me. He is watching me. Uncomfortable, I look away. Maybe if I stare at something he will be curious as to what I am looking at and he will look away to share my gaze. I look back at him. Still staring. His bag is moving. Thrusting motion. His bag is moving in a thrusting motion. I breathe. My chest grows as I inhale and a noise is released from my nose as I exhale. Thrust. Thrust. I want to look away but I can’t. I need to see what he is looking at. Thrust. Thrust. I need to see him see me. I watch his bag move back and forth. His mouth open, he is panting. Thrust. Thrust. His breath is beginning to be audible and it is getting faster and quicker as he thrusts back and forth. I watch him watch me. I breathe. I see, I look, I stare. I am numb and not moving however I feel as though my breath is moving me at a speed with which my body cannot keep up. Thrust. I am glued to my seat. Thrust. I need to watch him watch me. Thrust. I need to get up. His eyes have not left my body since before I first noticed him looking my way. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. I want to get up but if I turn to leave I am only serving him with more visuals. I’ll provide him with a side of me he has only thus far imagined. I can’t break from the scene but I need to get out. “Próxima estación: Laetanya.” Through my peripherals I see people getting ready at the doors, preparing to step off the train. I sit still. The doors open. People are hustling on and off- I jolt up, hold onto my purse, and in one quick motion I run off the train and head for cart number two. Not far enough. I need more space between my intruder and me. Faster, I run. Cart number three. The doors are closing; I make it just in time. Sweating. I am sweating. I am breathing heavy and I am nervous that I am attracting attention. I look around. Three people on the cart and all of them are involved in themselves. I close my eyes and give my vigilance a rest. I look for a seat away from the dispersed riders. I make my way to a corner seat- removed from the possibility of sharing a common space. Safe. Nobody is watching me. I can see them, watch them and secure that I am not noticed. I calm my breathing so that I blend with the quiet tone of the third cart. I stare at the guy to my left- he is reading. Woman up ahead to the right- she is pretending to read the advertisement on the wall beside her but I can tell she is staring blankly, completely spaced out. Further back, a young man with his groceries, who- shit! My bags!
I am worried. I am not worried that I have to go back to get them, I have given up on recollecting my bags of food. No dinner for me. I am not hungry anyway. Instead, I am worried that my violator will steal my bags. I am scared that he will continue to use me as a visual subject of seduction by fantasizing about my edible belongings. He will know what I eat. He will be able to give my face an identity. My food will say something about who I am. These inanimate objects will give him pleasure as he conjures up my image and continues to invade my privacy. My groceries belong to him now. I belong to him now. He can do with me as he pleases at any given moment. My being is his. He is at liberty to make of me as he pleases. I have been possessed by an onlooker. He looked at me and swallowed me. Devoured me. I no longer own all of me.
I check myself. Beads of sweat wetting my t-shirt. I smell. I am panting. Breathing loud and hard. My eyes are locked in a trance. My neck is getting hot. I get off at the next station and push through the crowd. I knock a woman off her balance- I bump into the staircase railing. I am running, but not fast enough. Elbows tucked in, knees high, I run. Right, left, right, left. I run. I stare ahead of me as I run. I feel people looking at me, but they can look if they want to. There is nothing to see. A body running. That’s all. I trip over the wheel of a baby carriage. I catch myself and continue running while trying to fix my left shoelace. Running is hard when you have to reach for a foot- it feels more like a limp. I run. Thrust. I run. Fast. I catch speed. I am running. I don’t have an end point. I don’t know where I am going. I need to keep moving. I can’t stand still.
Where am I? When did I start running? I can’t remember where I was going or where I came from. I think I have left myself in cart number one. I have been left in the care of a dirty, balding, fat man with a thrusting white plastic bag. I see him in my mind. I close my eyes tight in an attempt to shake the image of him out of my head. I close my eyes with urgency and conviction a second time and shake harder. I am sweating. My neck is hot. My breathing is sporadic and is choking me. I run. I open my eyes, he is still there.
“Get off! Get out! Get out of my head!” I see darkness in front me. I breathe. His image is blurring. I see him seeing me. I watch him thrust as I stare at him. I shake him out. I see black. I see black in front of me. “Get out!” I think I have slowed down. I don’t think my legs are moving anymore. I am standing still. Breathing. Sweating. Running in my head. Hot. I fall. Black out.
IV
I woke up this morning with a yawn that filled the room. Before I brush my teeth I walk into the kitchen to put water to boil. I make enough for myself. I don’t know if she drinks coffee. I never asked. She never told me.
I reach for the kettle and fill it up enough for one cup. As the water heats up, I prepare a cup with a teaspoon of instant coffee. I grab for a piece of bread and throw it into the toaster. I stand around, waiting. My head tilts upward and my eyes start to close. I’m tired. I couldn’t sleep much last night. I think about my night and how I wish I hadn’t bet on that last game. I was doing so well. I didn’t need to double down. I wasn’t thinking. Whistle; water is ready.
I pour my cup, lay the kettle back down onto the burner and twist the knob: off. I don’t like my toast brown so I reach for it before it pops. I spread on some butter, plop it onto a plate and make my way into the living room. No hand free to turn the light on; I sit in the dark. My computer lights up bright enough that I usually don’t turn the lights on until much later on in the day anyhow. I’m not usually concerned with the lighting in the room. The truth of the matter is that a dark room is conducive to the work I do. It sets a sinister mood. It keeps me dreary eyed. Half alive. Just the frame of mind I want to be in when I am betting my life away.
I hear footsteps. Actually, I hear tiptoeing. Her door opens and a light pours out of her room. Here comes the freak show. She dances around this apartment trying to avoid me or keep her life secret. Mysterious. She thinks she is creating some kind of enigmatic air about her by being weird. Some quirky attribute to cultivate a personality, but all it does is reveal her weirdness.
I remember once after about a month of her living here I was a little curious as to whom she was. I would never dream of sparking a conversation with her, so I went into her room when I heard the shower start one afternoon to snoop around. I figured I would get some sort of clue. I opened her door and turned the light on. I took one quick look around and I remember feeling an eerie sensation that this girl, my roommate, was a manic. There is something to be said about being tidy but this girl is psychotically neat. I knew I only had about three minutes to look around because I have noticed she times her showers. She goes to the bathroom everyday at the same time; she only leaves her room once per day. She seems completely crazy to me from what I can see, but I guess it is safe to say that she isn’t harm to anyone. She is more of a threat to herself than anyone else. What do I know though?
I try not to stare at her while she walks along the hallway wall. She holds onto the wall as though there is a ledge she might fall off of if she walks too far away. I think she acts like this to attract my attention. Or maybe she does it so that I don’t notice her. Either way, I couldn’t care any less.
“Adiós” she whispers to me. Anytime she speaks to me it is in a whisper. It is as though she is hiding her speaking voice, scared that her voice tone or quality might expose her true persona. Like I care. I don’t answer back because she is gone before I look up. I barely hear the door close behind her. Later on when she gets home, I won’t notice.
V
As I walk down the Gran Vía and make my way to the open market, I shade my eyes with sunglasses and block out street noise with music, which sounds only in my ears. The world as I know it exists only within a one foot perimeter of my moving body. I can see the activities of the busy boulevard, I can make out honks and yells and I can smell the bread from the local bakery. People, however, do not know what I am looking at. They are unaware of the volume in my ears and therefore do not know whether I can make out shared sound or not. Although I walk among the rest of the people on the sidewalk, I do not share a common experience of events happening. It is questionable whether I am really there or not. I make it so that fellow city dwellers cannot see that I see them; so maybe they cannot see me. I float around. I blend in. I drift along. I vanish.
I walk into the corner coffee shop. The music is playing a melodic jazz tune. My eyes pan the room. The cashier is taking a young woman’s order: regular coffee, one milk. I look around. In the far corner, a couple sits next to each other with two empty glasses in front of them. On the other side of the room there is a man reading a map. He is drinking a bottle of water. Useless. Across from him, two girls sit by the window. One has her hand on a coffee mug. Contents: half-empty. The other girl has pushed her full cappuccino aside. It wasn’t to her liking.
I sift through the tables and chairs and sit on a bench three over from the two girls and keep a close watch. I want that cappuccino.
Within fifteen minutes the girls are done talking about which movie they will go see later tonight. I watch as they pull their purses over their shoulders and walk toward the door. I wait a few minutes to make sure they aren’t coming back. I steadily make my way for the cappuccino.
Still warm.
After my morning coffee, I continue on my way to the market. When I reach the entrance, I remove the headphones from my ears and join the world. I need to hear what prices are being negotiated. I need to hear what people are saying looks fresh and new from today. I need to hear those two ladies yelling at each other about last night’s happenings. I need to hear if someone is creeping up behind me to steal my purse.
Red peppers, Spanish onions and tomatoes. What else did I need? This always happens to me. I walk into the market convicted and ready but as soon as I reach a stall, I forget what I came for. I forget what I’m even doing there. What was I making for dinner? Beans? Chili? Guacamole? Salad? I should buy beans. I should probably get rice too. I’ll get it at another stall. I don’t like buying everything I need from one stall only- I divide the things I need amongst several stalls and stores. I know why, but I don’t want to tell you. Cinnamon. I also need to get cinnamon.
“Un diente de ajo, este jengibre y ¿tienes canela?”
Two white bags filled with groceries and seventeen euro later, I stop to replace the earphones back where they belong and press play on my music player. Sunglasses on, I walk. I could fit in here. I look like a local. I think I looked like a local from the day I moved here. Or even before that- maybe that’s why I picked this city and not somewhere else. I don’t think I could bear seeming like a tourist. Looking foreign- it would attract too much attention. I dress locally, I speak Spanish, I don’t look about fascinated by the architecture and I definitely do not get lost in the windy confusing streets of the old city. Tourists don’t have it good here. Not only is this the infamous country of petty thievery but, to make matters even easier on the robbers, tourists walk around treacherously slow, gawking at the art that builds the city- they stare at their new surroundings and leave their bodies uninhabited; along with their purse, their soul could be stolen.
VI
Am I an empty vessel that satisfies a carnal urge? I didn’t want a role that integrated me into society. I especially don’t want the one assigned to me.
I go back to sleep.
VII
“Get out!” I hear her yelling from below the window. She is yelling in the streets. Odd because she never speaks and if she does, it is barely audible. She is making quite a scene for someone who doesn’t like to be seen nor heard. I get up from the couch and make my way to the French windows. I open them and step out onto the balcony. I see her. She is standing right there outside of our apartment. She is even weirder than I thought. The strangest part of all of this is that I could swear she only just left the apartment a moment ago. She really never leaves her room. I mean she leaves to take a shower, but I never see her eat and I see her leave. This is the first time since she moved in that I can say I saw her exit the apartment. And why did she leave? Well, to my knowledge she left in order to have some sort of public breakdown.
She doesn’t look normal from what I can tell. She is breathing heavy and she keeps wiping her arms. It looks like she might be possessed. What is she doing?
I step off the balcony and back into my living room. Now the room is lit up and my eyes are trying to get used to daylight. I’m hungry. Maybe I will go into the kitchen to make myself something to eat. Normally I would have pasta but I think that might take too long and I am quite hungry. Should I just run downstairs to get a bocadillo? That would mean I might have a run in to her. I’m hungry though.
I get my shoes from my room, place them on my feet and close the door behind me. I check my pockets for money. I only have two euro in change, I don’t think that is enough. I figure since she is so busy freaking out in the middle of the streets, I know I have at least a few minutes. I go into her room to find a spare euro or two. I look through her purse that is hanging at a perfect angle from the hook on her door. From what I gather she goes to the university here. By the books on her shelf I assume she is studying psychology. I don’t know when she goes to class though, considering the fact that she doesn’t leave her room. Maybe she has special permission to take class from home or something. I take a quick peek at one of book’s the inside flap- published in 1886. Why is she reading outdated psychology books? As far as I can tell this girl lives in a world of her own. She has created a stigma about her that consumes me at times. I wish I could figure her out. I scan the room in one motion to make sure I haven’t disturbed anything. Why is there a black t-shirt taped to the wall? Forget it. Why do I even ask questions? As if I am going to find a sensible answer. I align the sock with the door and shut off the light. Untouched. I hope she doesn’t notice.
I lock the front door and take the stairs. When I open the door, the light strikes me blind. It is so sunny in this damned city. When the blurriness clears and I reclaim my vision, I see her. She is lying on the floor. She is just lying there. A crowd has formed around her. For someone who tries so hard to be incognito she sure has attracted a lot of attention.
“¡Auxilio! ¡Alguien! Se necesita un médico. ¡Alguien!” People were shouting for a doctor to come to her aid. Should I let them know that no doctor would ever help at this hour? You never know, I mean, someone might feel it their duty to do whatever they can to help this girl. With the insight I have on her life, I wouldn’t rush so fast. She probably has fits like this all the time. It would actually explain her behavior a great deal.
I went for my sandwich, at the expense of my roommate, and made my way back to the apartment. I thought maybe I should stop and tell these people that I know the girl blacked out on the floor, but I spared myself the drama and went upstairs. Maybe she really is sick. Maybe something bad is happening to her. Maybe she will spend the day in the hospital- maybe I’ll have the place to myself tonight. Freak-free.
VIII
I need to learn how to sleep with my eyes open. Closing them isn’t an option. I can’t close them. I will see him watching me. Using me. Violating me. Taking me away from me. He cannot be obliterated from my mind’s eye. I know that he can see me when he desires and this leaves me numb. I have been noticed. I have failed. I know the truth. There is a constant exchange. An obtrusive, involuntary exchange. There is one happening perpetually and eternally. Every instant I feel as though I am forced into an interaction with that man. I have to sit for him. I have to provide him with a visual. I feel him using me even if I try to actively be disengaged. He has captured a snapshot of me in his memory. I can’t live with that. I anguish over the unknown thoughts of this strange man’s menaced mind. I can protest as much as I want, but it would be in vain. I don’t own myself. I am not my own. I am what he wants to do with me. He has managed to birth me into a world; a world that I have never wanted to be a part of.
I need to be uncontaminated from his abusive stare. I need to be rid of his sinister gaze. I ripped my clothes off in one fell swoop. I need to shower. I put my clothes back on. I stood motionless in the middle of my room. I stared straight ahead. I stared blankly. My eyes began to cross as they blurred the cabinet that stood in front of me. My body rocked gently back and forth. My head felt light. My head felt heavy. It felt light, then heavy. Then my head fell back and my neck felt as though it snapped. I fell to the ground. My body no longer rocked gently but rather convulsed epileptically on the floor. I peed.
IX
Hands down his pants; I sat across from him. Staring. Trying not to stare. Staring.
I felt the urge to tell him that I saw him. But foreseeable danger lurked beyond the door and drowned that desire. I sat there. There I sat. Eyes being gravitationally pulled to the one region I was trying so hard to be blind to. Hypnotized. I sat paralyzed.
X
Everything has a precarious quality. The world is not safe. Just when you think you have things under control a bullet will cross your path and shave off a piece of arm flesh. I couldn’t dodge my bullet. It came too unexpectedly.
I think I am on week three of lock down. I unplugged my phone, dropped my classes and quit my job. I no longer have any reason to leave my room. I eat. Sometimes. I read a lot and keep myself busy cleaning my room. Everything is neat and orderly. I have dusted every corner of my cell. Every article of clothing is tucked away in a three-fold manner. T-shirts: left side folded in, right side folded in and then I grab the bottom and have it meet the collar. Pants: folded down the middle, then the bottom meets the knee and one more fold to meet the waistband. I have organized my tops in three categories: long-sleeves, t-shirts, tank tops. My pants have three classifications as well: leggings, jeans, and shorts. Finally I have bras, underwear and socks. I have also taken the time to alphabetize my books. First by genre, then by publishing house, and finally by publication date.
I don’t know how I used to live in this room with everything sprawled out like such a mess. The more time I spend in here the more I realize there is to do. To maintain the tidiness I have to clean this place more than once a day. I clean it when I wake up, again after my three o’clock shower and then finally before I go to sleep. As soon as I wake up I make my bed, change into clean clothes and put my pajamas in the laundry. Later, I count and organize my books, and fold my clothes. Before I go to bed, I dust, mop and give a quick scan to make sure everything is orderly. I find it much more manageable to live in a clean and systematized room. A wrinkle in my bed makes my skin crawl. My body shudders at the mere thought of a book being shelved out of place. I can’t sleep at night if I know that every inch of my room hasn’t been dusted. There is a ton of upkeep, but I just couldn’t get on with my day any other way.
The problem is that after I have done my daily chores there isn’t much time for anything else. I have counted the books in my room: eighty-nine. Seventy-two of which have been published before the nineteenth century. I have seven white tank tops and three white long sleeves. Two black leggings and one pair of jeans. I have eight short sleeve tops: one green, two black, one brown, three blue and one white. I have two pairs of shorts, fourteen underwear, two bras and nine pairs of socks. I find it imperative that I keep stock of what I own. It makes it easier to get dressed. Also, being as organized as I am allows me to keep an eye on whether something has been tampered with or not. I never leave my room for more than a shower, but in a shower’s time, Claudio or one of his friends have time enough to snoop around or rob me blind. Not now. Now everything is accounted for.
XI
“I’m telling you she is nuts.” I said to my friend Gisela. “She never leaves her room and I know something weird is going on in there.”
“No me dices. Claudio, eres un loco.” She replied with a snicker.
“No not me. I’m not the crazy one.” I looked at her. She could tell that I was not only serious, even a bit nervous. Maybe she thinks I am concerned. Either way, I continued in a whisper “I feel really uncomfortable around her. I always feel as though I am being watched or something. I mean, she never leaves her room, so I know it is impossible, but- I don’t know. I just always feel like I have no privacy around here. God forbid I bring home a girl- she would be totally sketched out by my living situation.” I know Gisela thinks I am making all of this up. She hasn’t ever met her though. To tell you the truth, if someone was confessing this shit to me, I probably wouldn’t believe them either.
“Claudio, por favor. Si quieres chingar, ¡qué te vayas en tu propia habitación! Normalmente, la gente no se masturba en plena visión de otros. Necesitas privacidad, ¡quédate en tu cuarto!”
“OK. Fine. Remember that day I told you about how I saw her passed out downstairs on the streets? Come on! That is strange. I mean- I know I used to tell you about her loony ways, but how about that? She leaves her room for the first time ever just to have a public seizure! She’s really starting to creep me out.”
“¡Ah! ¡Dios mío! Si tienes preocupaciones, ¿por qué no la preguntas a ella si algo le pasó? En serio. Tal vez algo ocurrió.”
Gisela is a nice person but she isn’t sensible. I can’t ask a person I have never spoken to if something is the matter. I have literally exchanged two words with her: if I am in her route when she leaves to go to the bathroom she mumbles perdona and that one time she whispered adiós to me. I am not about to knock on her door and ask her if she has suffered a mental breakdown.
“The other day I was sitting in the living room quietly and then all of a sudden I heard a thud coming from her room. It was loud. I tried to decipher the sound. It wasn’t loud enough to be books but it wasn’t light enough to be clothing. She doesn’t have anything other than that in her room. So I figured it had to be her that fell. I made nothing of it, but then I noticed that two days had passed and she hadn’t left her room once. I wasn’t worried or anything but I was curious. Maybe she fell and hit her head or whatever, so I went to her room and I contemplated knocking but decided against it. I opened her door slightly and looked around the room for her. I found her lying on the floor in a pool of yellow water. Yeah, that’s right. Urine. She was sleeping in her own piss for two days straight. I’m telling you Gisela, she’s a freak.”
“Eres un maricón Claudio.” Gisela stood up and made her way toward her room.
“What are you doing? Don’t go over there. Gisela!”
There was no stopping her. She walked over to her room and just as she was about to knock, she emerged.
XII
Tracking my belongings and keeping inventory has regulated my daily life. This routine fills my days and quite honestly keeps me exceptionally busy. I think it was imperative for me to quit school and work because frankly I don’t think I would have had enough time or energy to juggle both lives. From morning until night I am so busy arranging and rearranging my room so that it is in perfect array, I don’t know when I would have fit in studying.
I have finished folding my clothes in thirds and I move on to dusting and organizing my books. I am almost half way through the first bookshelf when I hear my roommate talking to someone in the common room. From the voice I can almost immediately tell it is a girl. Paulina, Marta or Gisela. He only has three girlfriends. Normally when Paulina comes over I can hear her shoes stomping away. She is not only the loudest walker I know, but she also finds it important to pace for the duration of her stay. She is overly excited or something – whatever it is, she never sits herself down, which I find excessively irritating.
Marta is a pretty quiet girl. Unfortunately for her, I can always hear her bangles jingling together when she is here. She talks low and makes no noise at all. But those damn bangles give her away every time. I’ve never actually met her, but I’ve peeked out of my room before and I’ve noticed that the racket comes from all of the gestures she makes while talking.
I don’t hear any stomping or any jewelry clanking together. So I guess that leaves me with Gisela. Proper, flip flop wearing, jewelry-free Gisela. I often wonder what Claudio has to talk about with all of his friends all of the time. Lately, since I have been home more often, I’ve noticed that he hosts a plethora of guests throughout any given day. He probably invites them over so that he doesn’t have to be alone with me. Or maybe he does it so that he can monitor me and have his friends be witness to my behavior. He is invasive and has a lot to learn about boundaries. Sometimes, when I am taking a break between chores, I can feel him standing outside my door trying to hear what I am doing in here. I know he is watching me and taking note of my daily activities. He bothers me. Just the simple fact that we coexist bothers me. Mostly because of the fact that he is so bored with his own life that he has become obsessed with mine.
I press my face against the wall that separates my room from the living room. I can barely hear what they are saying, but I know that if I just press a little closer I can make out some key words. They have to be talking about me. Maybe they are trying to figure out what I am doing right now or maybe they are laughing at me. It is strongly possible that they are plotting something against me. Nothing serious. Just strategizing on how to get me out of here so they can snoop around me room. Unlucky for them, I have set up various little traps around my bedroom that would reveal an intruder’s fingerprints. Not actually fingerprints, I’m not crazy, but signs that someone has been in here or has touched something. I also place a sock right by my door every time I leave my room to go to the bathroom so that I will know if it has moved when I get back- exposing the trespasser.
I stand by my wall struggling to make out even the slightest whisper. This leaves me no other option. The peephole I have is just not big enough. I rip off the black t-shirt that I have taped over the small hole and I reach for the scissors on my table and begin to hack away. They wouldn’t be whispering if they weren’t talking about me. They think I’m listening so they are hushing. They won’t pull a fast one on me. I’m onto them. I begin to jab the wall consistently in the same place. I cut away until I finally have a fuller view of the living room. I pull the scissors back quickly; they might see me. Once the hole has reached the desired size, I reach for a black t-shirt from my closet and use it to cover the hole so they won’t see me seeing them. Dust has gathered at my feet directly below the hole; I have a lot to clean up tonight.
I wonder why I’ve never thought of this before. How could I have ever lived without this peephole? I need this hole in order to keep track of my nosy roommate. My threatening, invasive, privacy-negating, nosy roommate. And his nosy friends. He thinks he can sit there and watch me all day and judge me and laugh at me and plot against me. He has another thing coming. This hole has just lightened my load by plenty. I feel much better now that I have a view of what is going on. Now I cannot only see them, but I hear them much better. I missed most of the conversation; I was so busy making the damn hole. I see Gisela; I was right. I knew it was she. Why is she getting up? She is heading over here.
“What are you doing? Don’t go over there. Gisela!” Shit! She is coming over here. What business does she have coming this way?
I get up frantically and head for my door. Before she has a chance to knock at my door, I swing it open. That should freak her out.
“Can I help you?” I say to her with my face pulled back and my eyebrows raised. I know I look suspicious. I try to cover it up. I smile.
“Hola. Eh, no. bueno. Es que- eh. Quería saber si tienes- bueno. Es porque normalmente no vendría molestarte, pero quería saber si tienes un tampón.”
She’s lying. I’m not stupid. I see through her. I looked at her. I looked her up and down and looked her up and down again. “No.” I closed the door.
XIII
Hands down his pants; I sat across from him. Staring. Trying not to stare. Staring.
I felt the urge to tell him that I saw him. But foreseeable danger lurked beyond the door and drowned that desire. I sat there. There I sat. Eyes being gravitationally pulled to the one region I was trying so hard to be blind to. Hypnotized. I sat paralyzed.
I am not sure when I fell asleep in a pile of clothes on my floor, but I just woke up in a puddle of urine. I have an urge to go into the living room and sit across from Claudio and just look at him while he looks at me. I want to see what he sees. I want to see myself reflected back at me through his gaze. I need to see what other people see.
What does he see when he looks at me? Is that what he sees when he looks at me, an empty vessel that satisfies a carnal urge? I don’t want a role that integrated me into society. I especially don’t want that one.
I feel as though the urine is beginning to coalesce and I find it hard to remove my hand from the puddle. I am stuck.
I go back to sleep.
XIV
I was going to take the subway but it was such a beautiful day out. I know my bags are heavy but my apartment is barely five blocks away from the market. There is no reason I should spend almost two euro on a five-minute ride.
I set my bag from my right hand down and reach for my earphones. I place them in my ears and push play. I bend over and grab for my bags and look up to make sure nobody has been watching me. I glance left- the young man in the carnecería has his eyes locked on me and he is smiling. I can see all of his teeth. Creepy. I make a face, which will convey my disgust and look right. An old gypsy woman is sitting at her stall selling prayers. They are all displayed in an upright fashion with colorful backgrounds. Each card has words written on them which she guarantees will make whatever wish you have come true. Scam. I take a quick peek back at the carnecería to ensure that buddy to my left has given up on me. He is serving someone. Good to go.
I make my way through the streets and head home. Two blocks into my walk I decide that my walk isn’t that bad. My bags aren’t so heavy and the heat is quite endurable. I detour to the park that is one block further south from my apartment. Ill sit there for a half hour or so and do some reading for school. I’m on schedule with my readings but maybe I’ll do next week’s work. Plus, Claudio is probably home. I definitely do not want him to be home when I get back. He might ask me to see what’s in the bags. He never actually talks to me, but I feel as though one day he might decide to start. I don’t want today to be that day.
I walk over to a bench that shares the view of both the park and the street. There is a group of old men playing Patonk. I watch them for a bit. I like watching people when they are playing a game; there is no time for them to notice you. They are too involved in their game and they usually don’t mind spectators. It’s like there is a rule about people playing games: expect to be watched. I take advantage of my allowance and stare at the tallest man of the group. He is wearing checkered pants with white shoes and a tucked in polo. How obvious. The rest of the men are also wearing short sleeve polo tops but their bottoms are all different: khakis, jeans and one man is wearing shorts. They all make their way over to the marker ball to determine the winner of the round. One of the men is radically upset; I think he thinks he got gypped out of a victory. I can’t really tell what is going on. They had been standing around that tiny ball for approximately fifteen minutes before I got bored enough to get up and continue my park experience.
I take a quick mental snapshot of each one of the men in the sandbox, in case one of them follows me. I want to be able to make all of them out in a line-up. I walk along the path and find a section of the park that is secluded. This part is tucked away form the rest of the area and is surrounded solely by trees. There are three benches all facing each other, but one of them is a little more removed than the others. I sit on one of the two more exposed benches. I want to be able to see as much as possible. I take a quick scan of the area: on the bench closest me there is a brown paper bag that is completely crumpled up. Someone was just here and thought it unnecessary to clean up after themselves. On the other, more removed bench, there is a man. I can’t really make out his face. I move my head around the bushes that are between us to try to get a better look at him; I need to see if he has noticed my presence. Does he know I am here? We catch eyes. I look away. His eyes are fixated on me and his gaze is absorbing me. “Get off!” I want to get up and walk away- I don’t feel right sitting here. I stand up and with new height the path is cleared and I have a perfect view of the bench-man. He is staring at me. He is sweating. His pants are around his ankles along with his white, dirty underwear. He is staring at me. Gasping for air. His breath is uneven as he expels energy on the jerking motion that obliges my presence. He is jerking. Back and forth. Breathing. Staring. Jerk. Jerk. I stand motionless. Frozen in position. I want to run. But instead I stand mystified. My breath swells and chokes me. I feel dizzy. Jerk. Jerk. He stares at me while unconsciously licking his lips. He can’t control himself. He is possessed by his urge to satisfy himself. Jerk. He needs me. Jerk. He is using me. Jerk. His eyes roll back into his head. Jerk. His breathing even more sporadic. Jerk. Jerk. I am choking. My head is light. My head is heavy. I can’t breathe. I’m dizzy. Jerk. I see him watching me. Using me. Jerk. Uncontrollably jerking. I have to make a run for it. I need my body right now. I need to take it back from him. Jerk. I need to repossess myself and make a run for it. I can’t watch. I can’t stand here. I close my eyes. I take a deep breath and make a mad dash for the opening onto the street.
I run. I run like someone being chased. I run with my eyes wide open. I can’t risk closing them. I might see him. I can’t ever close them. Danger lurks behind my closed lids. Heel, toe, heel, toe. I run with all my might keeping my apartment in mind as I run and run and run for shelter. I reach a busy intersection. Hurry cars, hurry. I stand on the corner waiting for the cars to rush out of the way so I can get home. I am forced to keep still until the light changes. Hurry. I bend over, placing my hands on my knees. I gasp for air. It is hot out and I am sweating, I’m tired. My breathing is erratic; I think I have punctured a lung. I can’t breathe. I see spots starting to flash in front of me. Green. The street begins to spin. Pink. My body waves back and forth. Blue. My vision blurs. Black. I see black. I am seeing the back of my lids. My vision is obstructed by darkness. I see him. Jerking. Jerking. Jerking. I see myself, standing there. Trapped. I try shaking the image of him from my head. “Get off! Get out! Get out of my head!” My entire body quivers with a violent sensation. “Get out!”
My body loses balance and I fall to the floor. That is all I remember.

XV
The sun in the yellowed morning colors the corner of my bed. The light woke me up; I made my way under the covers, seeking refuge from the blaring sun. It is early and I didn’t get a good night’s sleep. I don’t know why or how I fell asleep on the floor. All I know is that I must have been very tired because I am quite particular about where I sleep. The floor isn’t usually an option.
Today I am going to the market.