You’re startled by a bang.
You’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, bag just put down after coming home, minding your own damn business.
At first you wonder if it’s maintenance, not that you had called them, and you’d never heard them knock that aggressively before, but then the pounding continues. The force behind it shakes the door, and suddenly your blood is pumping faster and your stomach drops and your breath is coming too quick. It had a level of implied violence you’d never been at the end of before. You have absolutely no idea who it could be or what they could want with you.
You stumble for a moment, body trying to make a decision before your mind has. You reach for your phone, wondering who the hell you call in this situation. Your leg steps back toward your room, wanting to lock yourself behind an additional door in case this one fails under the barrage, but then your mind starts working and you remember that seeing who is doing this is important.
So you creep over toward the door, hoping if you don’t make a sound they’ll think no one is home and go away. Looking through the peephole reveals a big man you’ve never seen before, looking left and right in exasperation, arm raising to resume the banging.
You’ve seen enough, you scramble back toward your room.
Your thumbs fumble on your phone screen. The apartment office? What could they do? The police? Is it serious enough for that? Without thinking you’re clicking your neighbors contact.
You know he’s not home right now, and you’ve never really talked all that much before, only ever exchanging numbers because of that one time your sink started flooding and he took pity on you and fixed it. You…just know that he’s military and big—bigger than the guy at your door—and you really have no way of knowing if this guy has bad intentions and what if he’s just an innocent guy and you call the cops on him? He’s the only person you know that you’re confident could deal with this, no matter what this is, even if contacting him is a long shot.
You don’t know what to say and your hands shake as you type out, “so sorry, please ignore this if you’re busy or whatever I just don’t know who to call. There’s a guy idk at my door and he won’t stop banging and I’m scared.”
Later, you’ll look back at the text and probably cringe at how pathetic you sound, but right now you think there’s too much adrenaline in your system and you can’t think straight.
You see the read receipt pop up under your text, and for a moment you think he won’t answer, but then suddenly your phone is vibrating in your hand from an incoming call from ‘Simon Neighbor’.
You pick up without thinking.
“I’m coming.”
“Okay…” the shake in your voice is against your will.
“Where are you?” His voice is gruff and you can hear shuffling on the other end like he’s moving as fast as he can.
“My room,” your voice starts to wobble and you don’t know why, eyes suddenly starting to tear up. As scared as you were, you’d been holding it together. For whatever reason, talking to him was suddenly making you break down.
“Has a lock?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there, sweetheart, I’ll be there soon. I’m gonna take care of it.”
“Okay.” It’s more a whimper than a real response.
He stays on the line, not saying anything, just listening to the banging and your heavy breathing, knuckles gripping the steering wheel at the sound of your fear. He makes it back to your place in really no time at all, tearing out of his car and to your apartment.
The next time you hear him is through the door.
“Hey!”
The banging stops. It’s silent for longer than it has been in a while. You might be imaging it, but you think you hear sounds of a scuffle. You take a step toward your bedroom door, hand reaching out for the handle until another knock on your door startles you away.
Except this time it’s a normal knock, polite and soft and nothing like the aggression from before.
“It’s Simon. He’s gone.”
That makes you open your door, moving toward the front door with vigor. You stop just short of opening it, taking a second to look through the peephole. His face on the other side makes your shoulders release and you open the door.
Something about seeing his face and knowing whatever was happening is over sets you off. “Sorry—“ tears start to fall down your face, “I don’t know why I’m crying—“
“‘S alright. You’re safe, he’s gone.” His stare is intense, like he wants to will your tears away. He hesitates for a moment, hand hovering awkwardly, before he plants it on your head, giving it a comforting pat. You ignore the split knuckles.
“Thank you,” you sniff, trying to laugh a little, “sorry, I still don’t know why my first thought was to call you…”
“‘M glad it was.”
You nod, wiping the tears, “me too.”
