Alone

Short story I wrote for my first essay this semester! :) Don't skip to the end. Or you will face my wrath. :P Enjoy!

Alone

I shut the door and quickly turn around to lean against it, releasing a long sigh. I am finally in my new apartment! My own apartment. I had been begging my parents for over a year, now, to let me move out, but they wouldn’t hear of it. That is, until I announced that if they wouldn’t let me go with their permission, I would just run away without it. Then they may never see me again; I am eighteen, after all.
So they finally let me go. Maybe they weren’t all too pleased with me…but it’s better for everyone this way. Now we all have a little breathing room. I can come visit when I want, and they will no longer have to pay my expenses. 
I’ve had a job for four years, and I have saved all of my earnings – haven’t spent more than fifty bucks the whole time. Between that and the second job I just applied for, I will certainly be capable of caring for myself. I’ll admit, though, I understand my parents’ reluctance to let me leave; I am their firstborn and only daughter. However, I’ll never get how they still don’t see the benefits for themselves! Oh well…they’ll wake up one of these days.
I turn around again to lock the door, and realize the latch is already in place. “That’s odd…” I think. “I guess I was too distracted to even remember locking it!” I chuckle and then mosey on into the kitchen. 
I’m not much of a cook, but the thought of making dinner for myself is exciting. I can’t help but revel in my independence throughout the entire cooking process. 
I open my refrigerator to get an onion to chop for stir-fry. Stir-fry is easy; even I can’t mess it up. The perfect meal to make me feel good about myself! I dig around in the well-stocked vegetable drawer, but cannot find the onions. “I swear I bought a few today,” I mutter to myself. “Two yellow and one red onion. Now where did I put them?” I search the other drawer and all the shelves, but still can’t find my onions. I sigh. “Stir-fry will be extremely lacking without onion, but I guess that’s the way it has to be.” I turn back to the counter to chop the other vegetables, and my heart jumps a bit.
On the counter, sit three onions. One chopped and two intact beside it. My eyes widen and I swallow hard. “I must have been more distracted than I thought.” My chuckle is a bit more nervous this time, but I continue fixing my dinner. 
Later that evening, I recline on my small sofa with a good book. The novel is gripping – a mystery filled with deceit, murder, and confusion. Too late, I realize this is not the sort of tale in which to indulge on my first night alone. Despite myself, I finish the novel within a few hours.
Eventually, still feeling jumpy from the story, I begin the process of going to bed. I am about to brush my teeth when I realize that I want to wash my hair, first. I have an unusual preference for sleeping with damp hair. My mother used to scold me, insisting it was a waste of water. Seeing as how I always have to wash it again in the morning. I suppose she was right; I always did it anyway, though.
As the warm water soaks my hair and massages my scalp, I begin to relax and the slightly apprehensive feeling leaves me. I turn the water off, wrap a towel around my head, and straighten from bending over the tub. A contented smile settles on my face, but is suddenly chased away when I notice the toothbrush sitting on the sink. A large glob of pink bubblegum toothpaste sits on the bristles and is even smeared a bit on the sink. My heart begins to pound.
I know I did not get my toothbrush out. It should have been in the drawer beside the sink. As images of intruders, ghosts, and murderers pop into my head, I further regret my decision to read that book. On top of this, it is now, of course, that I choose to recall the fact that this apartment building was originally a factory, back in the early 1900’s. Furthermore, the landlord had thought he should enlighten me with a bit of history about the factory: in 1927 there was an explosion in one of the machines, killing six employees. I hadn’t appreciated this information then and I appreciate it less, now.
I’ve never believed in ghosts, but at this point my mind is willing to consider any possibility. What if the dead factory workers still haunt this building? Maybe they enjoy playing pranks on new residents. 
“Ha. Good one, Mister Ghost. You got me,” I say aloud, for the benefit of any nearby spirits.
It is then that I notice the locked bathroom door; I quickly forget the humor of the joke. I unlock the door and run around my apartment, flipping on every light. Somehow, this makes me feel safer. I turn on some quiet, soothing music to drown out the silence.
I sit down to paint my nails. Manicures have always had a soothing effect on me. As I run the brush over my pinkie nail, the whistle of a train jolts me, causing me to smear polish on my finger.
“Good gravy,” I think. “I didn’t know that train would be so loud!” Immediately after I think this, I realize that it shouldn’t be so loud. At least not if the window was closed. It is all I can do to stifle a scream. I have not even touched the window since I’ve been here! How is it open?
I frantically close and lock the window, and then grab my phone to call the police. I think twice, however, and decide to call my parents, instead. I’m not quite sure how the police would handle my situation; an eighteen-year-old girl frightened by her first night of independence? I’m not entirely convinced they would take me seriously.
My parents aren’t much better, filling my ear with “told you so” and “this is what happens when you don’t listen to us”, but at least they do care about me. They say I can come home for the night, until we can figure out what is really going on.
I grab a few things and get to the door before remembering to turn out all the lights. When I turn around, though, all the lights are already off. I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. Then I quickly exit the apartment, making sure to lock it.
I run to my car in my pajamas, jump in, and turn on the ignition. It’s a good thing my parents don’t live far away, as I’m not sure I could handle a long drive. I blare the radio the whole way so I don’t have to listen to my own thoughts. It’s strange how trees look like looming spirits and cars appear as fierce beasts when your sense of apprehension is aroused. 
Finally, I arrive at my parents’ house. I reach to turn off the radio, and realize it is no longer playing. Now my heart threatens to pound its way through my breastbone. How long has the radio been silent? Wasn’t I just listening to one of my favorite songs? I let out a groan and exit my car. Then I scamper up the sidewalk as quickly as I can.
My mother opens the door, and I run into her arms. Any sense of independence I had earlier in the day has vanished.
“Mom, I think my apartment is haunted. But then the…ghost – or whatever it is – followed me here!”
My mom doesn’t laugh at me, but I can tell it will take more convincing evidence to persuade her. “Sweetheart,” she says as she rubs my back, soothingly, “how about you get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”
I almost protest, but then realize she’s probably right. We’ll all be more level-headed in the morning. My mom walks me to my room and actually tucks me into bed, stripping down my independence even further. It works, though; within minutes, I am asleep.
The rest of the night is uneventful, and I wake in the morning feeling much more relaxed. I get up and go into the kitchen for some breakfast. Both of my parents are already there, sitting at the table with their coffee. They stare at me as I walk past them. I stop and stare back. “What?” I ask.
My dad gives an incredulous laugh. “What?” he repeats. “So, your apartment is haunted, is it? Ghosts?”
I sigh. “Dad…I don’t know what was going on, but it was crazy.” Before explaining further, I turn to pour myself a bowl of cereal; but I stop cold when I see a bowl full of Fruit Loops already on the counter.
“See?” I yell, pointing at the bowl. “How did that get there?”
“Quiet down,” my mom says. “Your brothers are still sleeping.”
I had forgotten about my two younger brothers. Their rooms are just down the hall, and I certainly don’t want to involve them in this predicament, so I lower my voice.
“How did this bowl of cereal get here?” I ask as calmly as I can manage.” Did one of you pour it for me?”
Now my parents are really staring. My dad is the first to answer. “No, hon. You poured it yourself when you walked in here.”
It’s my turn to be incredulous. “What are you talking about? I just got here, and all I’ve done so far is talk to you two!”
“You also poured that mug of coffee,” my mom states, gesturing to a third mug on the table. I hadn’t noticed it until just now.
I grab my head between my hands and close my eyes, trying to recall myself doing these things; but it’s no use. I don’t remember pouring that coffee any more than I remember assassinating Abraham Lincoln. 
I open my eyes to see the disturbed expressions on my parents’ faces. My dad clears his throat. “I think we may need to take you to see a specialist.” Surprisingly, I don’t object.

A month later, I sit in my apartment alone, once again. I am sipping a cup of tea that I don’t remember brewing, and reading a new book that I don’t recall buying. But I’m not afraid this time.
After visiting many psychologists and enduring countless tests, it was concluded that I have a special mental disorder. It’s a form of short-term memory loss, possibly even a sort of early Alzheimer’s disease.
I cried a lot when I found out, but I have come to terms with the fact, now. As often as the disorder leaves me confused, at least I always have an explanation to offer myself.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if the doctors are wrong. Especially when I hear the voices.