I SIT ON the window ledge, the glass open, the cold air refreshing on my face. One leg dangles out. Dangerous. I love the danger. Love the risk. What if I fall? This height would probably kill me, but maybe I’d get lucky. Broken bones, damaged organs. An ambulance ride, strangers’ hands along my body. Touches. Interactions. Conversations. An adventure. I watch the convenience store at the corner. Thirteen people have entered and left in the last forty-five minutes. Some drove up, some walked, one individual, skinny and white, has paced before the front for the last twenty minutes, looking more jittery than I do at one a.m. on a killing night. The sun is settling over rooftops, moving lower, night falling. I should be camming. I’ve taken too long for dinner. But as night falls, the interior lights illuminate the store and it glows. Like a beacon. I can now see inside. See the rows of food. If I squint hard and imagine a lot, I can see the slow spin of the hot dog turner. I roll away from the window, swing my leg inside, and stand, sliding the window down, the tracks sticking as if reluctant to obey.
I locked myself up for three years before I stepped out of my apartment for one long-ass day. That day, when I felt the foreign weight of shoes moving me up and along the grit of concrete? When I took a breath and registered scents, breeze, sunshine? It terrified me. I worried that I was facing an adversary I might not be able to resist. Normality. It is a tempting and crafty bastard. I worried that I would take that short trip, then not be able to return. Not be able to shut myself back inside, relatch the lock on my world of isolation. I worried that I would paint over my situation and convince myself that I can handle the outside world. Lie to myself because I would want normality so badly that I would risk others’ safety to get it.
Is that what I’m doing now? Lying to myself? Telling myself that I am strong enough because I am not strong enough to resist it? Is my will to be normal greater than my thirst to kill?
I let my brain ponder the question for one short moment, the length of time to properly dress, then I pull open the door. Stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket, and step, one tennis-shoed foot before the other, along the orange carpet.