Hypochondriac

By Asche Keegan

Darkness scratches at the window, its claws sliding down like the knives in horror movies. I go to it and peek out, searching for the scratch I think will be there, but instead I only see my acned face in the clear glass.

The masks have irritated my skin, as they always do, and I watch the contoured edges of my grin shrink away and morph into something darker. For a second, I shudder, imagining my teeth decaying and falling out.

Tearing my eyes from the ghastly sight, I run to my mirror and feel around in my mouth, making sure I still have a full set. I brush my teeth for the fourth time that night, scrubbing my face raw afterwards.

The darkness has returned, surrounding and crowding me. I close my eyes, but that makes it worse, so I open them as wide as I can and stare into the lightbulb until I can see it when I blink. The light sears away my fear for a moment, and I find an odd sense of peace in the stillness that follows.

Then thunder crackles outside and I cry out in surprise, once more running to my window to make sure that the heavenly shout had not set my house on fire, despite the numerous lightning rods running up and down its side.  

For a moment, I wish I had someone beside me to settle my fears, lay a hand on my arm and hold me. He’d tell me everything was alright, that I’d be okay, that he’d protect me, and that I could come back to bed if I wanted to.

I get caught in the daydream for a moment, until I can almost feel his arm sliding around my waist or the heat of his breath against my neck. Yet the thoughts are empty and restless, his face formless and shifting back and forth in my mind.

“It’s because of Covid,” I claim to myself. Pacing calms me, so I do it now, stalking back and forth across my room. “If I didn’t need to stay indoors. If I could see my friends. If I didn’t have to wear those masks.”

I hate the masks because they make it hard to breathe. They lasso themselves behind my ears and across my skin, leaving telltale marks of their abuse on my tender skin. I can’t breathe when I wear them, and I have to yank them off and head inside, terrified that I will suffocate to death and no one will come to save me because they would be too afraid of Covid.

Covid also scares me, and as I once more eye the darkness outside, I can almost see the tendrils slipping in beneath the window, carrying disease and despair, haunting me with its midnight black goo. I see myself hacking, bringing up bits of my lungs and refused visits from those I love most, and I pause a second, imagining my lonely deathbed, like Ebenezer Scrooge’s, but brought about by nothing more than a worldwide pandemic.

I’m pacing faster now, almost running back and forth as the rain drums against my roof and my window. I breathe faster as a whirlwind of possibilities sweeps through my mind. Through them all drums the word alone, and I panic, wanting nothing more than to be surrounded by the people I love and care for.

The rain stops, and I stop with it, listening to the lingering noise of raindrops falling off the roof and into the gutter. I close my eyes, caught up in the sound, but the darkness returns. I wonder what would happen if I let it overtake me—if I close my eyes and sleep for just a moment.

I imagine what my friends would say if they could be here—how they’d comfort me and tell me I was alright. How everything would be okay. How I won’t die alone. I can feel my throat constricting, my heart pounding, and I can’t resist the urge to cough.

Where did I get the virus at? The groceries dropped on my steps by the delivery man? Not the mail, which I haven’t touched in weeks. My phone broke weeks ago, and I haven’t replaced it. The thought hits me suddenly, and as I stare at the pile of library books, I wonder how I was weak enough to let this cacophony of germs into my home.

Though it is too late, I pull on some gloves and grab the staggering pile of books, holding my breath and hauling them across the house. One by one, I feed them into the oven, throw in the gloves, close the door, and turn it on the highest setting.

Quickly, I run back to the bathroom, grabbing the alcohol wipes and spray and sanitizing the area where the books had sat. I scrub my face raw, bemoaning my acne stings. I resist the urge to pick at them, only watching my haunted face in the mirror.

I stand there for awhile, but I smell smoke and race to the kitchen, where strings of fire decorate the walls, and I gape as the spare stash of alcohol explodes into flame. With no time to think, I yank the fire extinguisher from the wall and start spraying it, though the bursts seem to do little good.

My clothes start burning, and I give up the cause as lost, backing out of the kitchen and running back to my room. The fire has imprinted itself into my vision, throwing darkness in every other direction. I run from the darkness as much as from the fire, until I find myself in my room, throwing my sanitized objects into a pile of things I must salvage.

By the time I have gathered it up, the fire is outside my door, leaving only the window as my way out. Yet, darkness still scratches at the window, tracing lines up and down the smooth, polished glass.

I back away and hide on my bed, wishing I had been afraid of fire too. In that moment, I wonder what my family would think of me, if they were still here. In that moment I give up, wishing I could blame the pandemic for why I’d die alone.