alone and afraid

Even in a “mature” age, I occasionally find myself with misgivings about being alone. A creak, a bump, any sound no matter how insignificantly mundane or ubiquitous can be transformed into something concerning or even shockingly frightening for the tiniest of moments. I freeze in my tracks as adrenaline washes over me… a sensation that passes in the microseconds that span the time it takes my brain to process the experience. I quickly return to a state of ease as I try to ignore that fleeting moment of embarrassment that comes from jumping at the sound of a venetian blind snapping back against an open window in the afternoon breeze.

I like to cook when I’m alone in the house. Not only does it help me relax, but there is something especially gratifying about spending a lot of time preparing and cooking a meal that only you will eat. There are fears that haunt me as I cook by myself. These fears are exponentially more fantastic than those associated with simply being alone. They involve complex narratives that unfold vividly in my mind which is cursed by a hero’s helping of a morbid active imagination, involving atmosphere and characters and occasionally subplots. The most common of these horrific fantasies is most likely a fear that is more common than I like to think.

How many times has this happened to you?

I have spent an evening chopping and prepping a fine bird with shallots, potatoes, and other various accoutrements, and have put it in a perfectly preheated oven. I sit down on the couch to read a book as my meager living space gradually fills with the smells of culinary temptation so splendid that a pathetic wordsmith such as me could never describe them with reasonable justice.

Minutes pass too slowly. The aroma begins to consume my mind from the outside in. Soon it is impossible to concentrate on my reading. It is then that the phone rings. It startles me, waking me from a dream I never want to end. I answer it without hesitation.

“Hello?”

Nothing is my answer. Again, I say “hello?”

Then I hear it. The whispering desperate voice that causes my heart to pound even before I hear all the words it articulates “have you checked the chicken?!”

I just hope the call isn’t coming from inside my own house…

Mr Blunderson is a regular contributor to absolutely nothing… not even his own blog.