THE RATTLIN' DOOR

Since I’ve left my home and come here, I haven’t left my room – unless necessary.  It’s secure from the world, just me, poetry, literature, a haven.  Although ... I think I’m supposed to be waiting for something and I’m not sure what.  This situation I’m in is strange and I don’t know what the rules are.  My smart phone is on the bed, but do I text or will I be aloof and not say anything all day?  How do I play?

At exactly 5am every morning, my door rattles and I wake with a start.  The room isn’t safe anymore, I block any speculation or thought, I cover my head with the pillow and eventually it stops.  I get up and go to work.

Valentine’s Day finds me off sick.  I like to believe flu, but it could be malfunction of social face.  I find myself dozing, when the door starts that menacing rattling at exactly 5pm, unscheduled, unexpected, twice as unnerving.  Because it’s not the usual hour, it occurs to me to wonder what could be there.  I stir and there’s a bang, like something really powerful hit the panels – could it be hoofs?  One of D.H. Lawrence’s horses from the Rainbow?  Oh the power of sexual desire and what it can be mistaken for!  I wrap the duvet around me tightly, feverish, excited, lusty.

Rattle, thud and a snide whisper in my brain, do we mean it when we say all those I love yous or are we just clinging to rocks in a storm?  It maybe Ted Hughes’ Thought Fox, leading me down another pointless avenue of enquiry.  If I follow I’ll end up with Sylvia Plath’s mushrooms in my brain and well, she couldn’t face Valentine’s Day, could she?  Action is required here; all I need to focus on is the fact I’ll be over this sickness and back at work at 6.30am tomorrow.

Then I wonder and I fear, more than anything, that I’ll hear the sliver of feathers and my visitor will be some grim and ghastly raven, come to haunt me with what I’ve lost and should’ve held onto ... nevermore, nevermore can I go back ... too scary, too scary!

Finally I hear a human voice - my name is called.  The door crashes open, the lock is broken and you’re standing there with a Valentine’s card and a bunch of red roses; “Why the hell haven’t you texted all week?  Why won’t you let me in?”

Giddy with relief, I sit up and perform the smile that won’t answer any questions; “Sorry, love, I thought it was the God Awful Truth come knocking.”