The Knocking

Flash Fiction. An unexpected visitor arrives in the middle of a stormy night: a young man called Anxiety.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

The knocking startles me from sleep. I had only just managed to drift, so for a moment I pray that I am only imagining it. Then I hear it again, loud and clear, coming from the front door.

I stumble out of bed. I don’t want to wake my husband or our dogs, so I feel my way through the dark, leaving the lights off and trying to tread quietly across the squeaky wooden floors. Halfway down the hall I identify the low hiss as rain. A muffled grumble of thunder ripples across the sky.

Once downstairs, I flick on a lamp and peek through a crack in the blinds. Outside, standing on our stoop, a hooded figure hugs themself against the storm, glancing behind them as if wishing not to be seen. I cannot see their face, but I recognize their demeanor at once.

My stomach drops.

As soon as the door is open the visitor ducks unprompted into the house, thanking me profusely. I find it irritating, but it’s also expected: they never ask for permission, and I am too tired to protest.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” they explain, wringing their hands.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “It’s late.”

Anxiety lowers his hood, confirming his identity. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know his age because I’ve never asked, but he looks like he’s in his late teens. He’s always looked that way, in fact, no matter how much time passes, and he’s always wearing that same blank, disapproving expression on his face.

He says he won’t be staying long, that he only needs a place to stay for the night, but I know that it won’t just be one. It never is.

“Why?” I shut the door, dampening the sound of the falling rain, then choose a different question. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he answers, waving a hand into the air, his eyes already combing over the appearance of our living room. His brow furrows. “How are you, though?”

Anxiety removes his coat, and as I take it from him I note that it feels brand new. His skin appears healthy and clear, too. He looks good.

I ignore his question and the thinly veiled judgment behind it. I do not owe him anything. “Are you hungry?” I offer, despite myself. “Can I get you anything?”

“Starving,” he answers, a little too quickly, “but… what do you have?”

I blink, knowing that nothing I say will be found acceptable. “Uh.” My eyes are bleary with exhaustion. I can’t seem to recall what, exactly, is in my cabinets. “Let me look.”

“No, no. Don’t let me put you out. I’ll take some water. You’re never drinking enough water.”

I plod off toward the kitchen, taking a slow, deep breath. I won’t let the comment get to me. We’ve been doing better.

“So,” Anxiety announces as I fill an empty glass. He lowers himself carefully onto the couch. “I heard about your fight with Hank.”

That was only a few hours ago, but I’m not surprised that he knows about it; he never shows up for himself alone. Still, his question and its implied access to every part and parcel of my life makes my entire body tense.

“Oh?” I feign ignorance. “From before you woke me up?”

I was the one who got upset, and I’m sure he knows that. I always feel guilty when I get upset, no matter my level of fault. Whatever Anxiety is going to say about it is going to upset me, too. I can already tell.

But he says nothing, only gives me a knowing look.

“Well that sucks,” I encourage him. “Which part are you going to fixate on?”

A shadow passes over his face as he says: “Don’t you think you sounded like your Dad…?”

And with that, he’s off. He launches into a long-winded listing of all of the reasons why I should feel shame, remorse, and unease. He doesn’t touch the water I put down on the coffee table for him. He doesn’t even pause, not even when I turn my back to him and retreat into the kitchen, grasping onto the sink for support.

“…what are you going to do if he leaves you? What am I going to do?”

My throat is tight. My hands are sweating. I notice the time. “Listen,” I croak, my mouth dry. “I have work tomorrow.” I don’t look up from the sink. My stomach is nauseous at the thought of Hank leaving me. He would be right to, of course. I was being crazy. It wasn’t even that big of a deal.

“What are you going to do if you sleep through your alarm?”

I try to ignore him, but it’s a good question, not least of all because he’s here now. I’m fully awake. My brain is going a million miles a minute. Going back to sleep won’t be happening anytime soon. “Are you good on the couch?”

Anxiety looks deeply concerned, but nods. “Yeah.” He tilts his head to one side. “You… ok?”

Yes! I am fine! “Yeah.”

What if Hank left me? What would we do with the dogs? Would he fight for custody? Would he be one of those jilted former spouses who refuses to compromise, whose divorce lawyers insist that he deserves to take everything?

Anxiety offers me a weak smile, as if he hears these thoughts, too. “Okay,” he says. “Goodnight.”

Thunder rumbles.

Anxiety’s head disappears on the other side of the couch.

I peer up the darkened stairwell, desperately and unsuccessfully trying to remind myself that Anxiety’s visits always come with this kind of dread. How long will it take to pass this time? What if it never passes at all?

“Night.”

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