Living Alone

Living alone is invigorating. You have your own space, you don’t have to worry about anyone touching your things, and you don’t have anyone to answer to. It’s independence at its most potent.

There’s nothing quite like it. Nothing quite like coming home after a long day at work and not having to listen to anyone’s complaints. If you’re too tired to do those dishes, do them tomorrow. No one can tell you not to.

That’s how I felt when I finished moving into my new studio apartment. I was going to be completely self-sufficient. I wouldn’t need anything from anyone.

Everything was wonderful. I got to run my own household, I could stay out as late as I wanted to and best of all, nobody would eat my food. It was fantastic, invigorating.

The only problem was how forgetful I was. I kept leaving doors open. I could have sworn that I closed them, but it wasn’t really a big deal. It wasn’t hard to shut a closet door, after all.

I started coming home to the lights being on. I was getting frustrated with myself. I had always been a bit scatterbrained, but I couldn’t just let my electric bill keep climbing. I needed to pay more attention.

My things kept getting misplaced. I’d put my movies one place and find them in another, my paper towels were never where I thought I put them, and my cups were all over the house. I really needed to get more organized or I was going to drive myself insane.

I started to feel unsettled when I realized that I was missing food. Everything else could be chalked up to my forgetfulness, but this was a tangible thing. My food couldn’t have just gone missing. I couldn’t have lost it. Someone had been in my house.

I told my mom about it and she told me I was probably just overreacting. Honestly she was probably right, but I couldn’t stop the sinking feeling that had settled in the pit of my stomach.

Every time I came to my house, I had to wonder if I was actually alone. I had to check every nook and cranny in case someone was hiding. I never found anyone.

After a couple of weeks I started to relax a little bit. Even if someone was coming into my house when I wasn’t home, they clearly didn’t mean me any harm. They never really took anything, and they seemed to be gone by the time I came home.

I kind of forgot about the strange things that had happened, to be honest. Nothing seemed to come of it. I had nothing to worry about, although I still didn’t feel completely safe in my own home.

The problems persisted, but I ignored them—no reason to start trouble, after all. I was exceptionally cautious not to offend some unknown entity inhabiting my home. Living like that for a few months isn’t ideal, but you kind of get used to it. I debated installing cameras, or calling the police, but ultimately I decided against it. What purpose would it serve?

I was calm. Serene, even. At least, until the day I got sick and had to come home from work early. As I unlocked my front door I heard scampering coming from inside. With my heart threatening to beat right out of my chest, I slowly opened the door, not certain I was prepared for what I would find.

There stood a masked man, and under him the elderly, shriveled form of who I assumed to be my leaseless roommate.