I’m barely breathing as I shift my door open, one hand pressed to the wood while the other grasps the handle in my sweaty palm, easing it open inch by painfully slow inch. I strain my ears for any sign of life downstairs, but there’s nothing. There never is.
I don’t even know if they’re here or working, but I’ve waited as long as I can.
Praying my empty stomach doesn’t give me away, I slip into the hall in my plumpest, softest slippers that I picked out specifically for this purpose and follow the path engrained into my memory. I’m completely silent, strangled breathing a familiar pain in my chest, and I don’t exhale until I’ve passed their room and reached the stairs.
Then I gather the air in my chest again and make my way down. All the weight is kept on the balls of my feet; every shift, every step, every redistribution of my weight is measuredand incremental. I’m careful. So careful. The stairs have become a pattern of left, right, front of the middle, back, foot sloped sideways with as little pressure as possible, and it’s not until I reach the bottom without a single sound that my muscles start to unlock.
Other than hearing, it’s like the rest of my senses go into hibernation. The dread of leaving my room is heavy, but my heartbeat is steady, my hands don’t shake anymore, and I slip through the living room toward the kitchen with renewed purpose.
I can’t cook anything because that will definitely bring hell down on me, so I debate what’s the biggest risk. Opening the fridge and risking the puff of the seal being that fraction too loud, or hoping the pantry door hinges are the right temperature not to squeal. With the fridge, I can grab a handful of bananas that are easy to carry and silent to eat. With the pantry, I can load up my pockets with snacks and bread that should last a few days before having to do this again. But the plastic wrappings have given me away before.
A bird lands on the kitchen windowsill.
Its twittering fills the kitchen, wings bumping the window as it jumps along, and my veins turn to ice.
Go!
I wave my hands at it, ears strained back up the stairs to my parents’ closed bedroom door.
The bird ignores me.
Move.
Leave.
Shut the fuck up.
I’m gesturing so wildly, trying to startle it, that my pulse has kicked up its rhythm.
Please, please, please don’t ruin this for me.
Like it can sense my begging, it disappears as quickly as it came, throwing the house back into silence. Silence, except for my heartbeat in my ears.
It’s going to have to be the fridge. Maybe their shifts will line up today, and they’ll both be gone at the same time, so I can restock my room.
I focus on calming my breathing, my heart rate, and getting my hands to settle before I risk the fridge. The door releases with apuh, and I freeze again, listening … listening …
My stomach growls.
Fuck.
I open the drawer, grab two bananas, and close it again, the plastic reconnecting sounding like a gunshot in the silence. I’m so close. Halfway there. I close the fridge a bit too hard in my rush, and the glass bottles inside shudder together.
I’m panting from the effort, the sickening adrenaline, stomach in angry knots that I beg just to work with me until I’m back in my room.
A noise comes from upstairs, and panic floods me. I lock up. Freeze. Knowing I should run and hide, I can’t do anything to make myself move. I wait for the inevitable footsteps, the anger, the screaming, the names …
A minute passes before the noise replays in my consciousness.
It was a pipe.
Just a groaning pipe.
Even if it did wake them, no one could blame me for that.
Still, it takes me another few moments before I can move again. Before I unlock my muscles, shaking more than I can control, and risk taking another step.
I make it back upstairs. Down the hall. Into my bedroom, where it takes me a full minute to close the door again.
