I park the armchair flat against the wall in the lounge, facing the hall that leads to and from the bedrooms. If she is going to come after me, I want to see it as early as possible.
I am in a state of confusion; I feel fear and anger at the same time. She will not ruin this for me. She will not take over from my imaginary girlfriend. I can’t have her destroying the only relationship I have, which has been so good for me all this time.
My time with Sarah was over, why couldn’t she just let it be?
Why couldn’t I just let it be?
Hours later and I can feel my eyelids are too heavy for me to hold them open any longer. I let them drop, hoping that the knot in my stomach subsides and wishing that I could turn back time.
I wish, as Sarah was walking out that door for the very last time, I hadn’t spat those horrible words.
‘And don’t come back!’
5.1
I awake to a repetitive rumbling.
With my eyes straining to open, my eyelids pulling against the gluey sleep holding them together, I listen to the low beat and feel the vibration entering my apartment.
It becomes clear to me that a neighbour must be playing music loud. Dance music. Mind-bogglingly dire, boring, lifeless, mechanized, robotic, vomit inducing, monotonous dance music. The kind that gives me a headache.
I haven’t heard this tripe for years, and never coming from a neighbour in this building.
I finally open my eyes to see Sarah’s photo, smiling at me. That smile is hollow now, and for some reason I feel angry towards it. The music is firing me up.
I try to remember back over the last couple of days, if any thuds or banging from people moving heavy boxes in had briefly woken me during my daytime sleep. No, I don’t think new people have moved in. But there it is, that droning bass-line rattling my walls and making the floor throb beneath my feet. And it is new.
I am tired, my sleep has been thin and my nerves are shot from the madness of the previous few days. I am holding onto sanity with the clumsiest of grasps, reassuring myself every so often that my imagination is just having its wicked way with me, only to then be thrust back into the realm of paranoia when my reality is twisted once more.
I sit up in bed and hold my hand out. My fingers are shaking and I cannot steady them. I need tea.
I flick the switch, drop the sugar cubes, stir, splash the milk, spin and slam-dunk the tea bag into the bin. No matter what mood I am in, the pro tea show must go on.
I watch the front door for what seems like an age. The imposing dark brown of the wood stands firm. It looks like a door heavy to open and in need of a few men heaving forward to close it again. But it opens deceptively easy, as I peer out in the corridor. My ears prick up like a wolf, and I trace the heavy bass to the door at the end of the dark tunnel.
My heart speeds up at the thought of stepping across that line, from the varnished floorboards of my apartment to the red carpet of the building’s corridor for the first time in two and a half years. I succumb to the weak Jared inside me, and shut the door.
I place my hands over my ears and drop into the armchair, and watch the steam rise from my cup of hot tea on the glass table in front of me.
The music stops. It has suddenly gone quiet once more and the headache thumping against my temples, and the irritation boiling inside of me, subsides.
5.2
I lower my hands onto my lap and continue to watch the dancing steam float through the air. It changes shape and direction at will and I am envious of its whimsical journey. My life is rigid and confined; the opposite.
I stare at the steam perhaps too long, as I soon begin to see shapes and images of transparent grey within. The steam fills out and takes the shape of a female figure. Her curves are full and I imagine a woman in a variety of seductive poses, each of which the vague, ambiguous quality of the steam adapts to loosely fit.
I can’t believe this; steam is turning me on.
My hands on my lap move over my groin and the bulge beneath begins to grow. I squeeze with one hand and the ridge beneath my palm becomes a hill and threatens further to grow a mountain. I scrunch the pyjama bottoms with my flesh beneath them. Time for a cold shower.
The water rains down hard on the back of my neck, washing over my shoulders and cascading down my body. I daren’t close my eyes. I spend the whole time standing under the freezing cold waterfall of my shower and surveying the bathroom through the frosted green glass.
I look for any changes in colour or tone, which might signify a body moving on the other side. I also hold my hands out, pressing them against the spiral walls of my shower, ready to react should I be suddenly, rudely, joined.
I have become immune to the cold water; my skin firms up and my muscles harden.
It occurs to me that I have not only imprisoned myself physically, by adopting the life of the Hikikomori, but that I am now sliding into a mental imprisonment. I cannot stop thinking, paranoid and suspicious at every corner. Not only every corner of this apartment cell, but also every corner of my psyche. This is unhealthy. No kidding.
The tea, left on the coffee table, or tea table should I say, is now Luke warm at best. A thin film of dried tea floats over the surface. Appetizing it is not, but I drink it anyway.
It used to make me angry that the whole world is made up of willing prisoners and just a few prison guards; the elite holding onto the cell keys that the drone masses happily hand over. Then, when I became a Hikikomori, I understood why. It is easier, less challenging, comfortably predictable to live your life under control. There is no great responsibility over others, no frightening decisions that have to be made.
A person can follow the path laid out for them, abiding by the rules of the society they were born into, and get along just fine. They will never truly feel alive, but then they will also never really suffer too much.
Play along nicely, and an iron fist in a velvet glove will handle you gently, merely prodding you into place. Dare to think for yourself however, and that velvet glove comes off, and that iron fist strikes you fast and hard.
5.3
In the gym, I step up onto the treadmill. Press Start. Walk.
I live my life with all the difficult decisions removed, all the promises that will never come true ignored and all responsibilities abandoned. All my bills are taken directly out of my bank account. All I have to do is remember to do my food shopping online, which my hungry stomach never lets me forget, and I’m fine.
Snap up a half-price football. Purchase a Blu-ray release of a Kubrick movie or two. Download a Radiohead album. These are the little extras I treat myself with for being so damn useless.
I press the up arrow on the treadmill display. The thick rubber belt beneath my feet, wearing this seasons Nike trainers, speeds up a little. I jog.
Maybe I have had enough of this holiday. I am starting to feel like I want to mean something again. I want to do things, have an affect on this world and stand up into the light instead of cowering away under the darkness of my apartment at night.
The shock, fear and paranoia I have been fuelled by lately may have tested my nerves to breaking point, but my heart is beating faster and my senses are sharper and the adrenaline is making me feel alive again.
I hold my finger down on the up arrow. The belt rotates faster and faster and I start to run. A bead of sweat escapes from my forehead. I pump my arms along with my legs, gritting my teeth.
A few more prods on the up arrow button and I am now sprinting. My tired legs have never gone faster. I am running on the spot but in my mind I am running away from Sarah, away from guilt, away from shame, away from my own self-imprisonment.
I am running!
My body exudes sweat and soon I am drenched.
‘Poppet!’
My imaginary girlfriend squeals, bouncing into my line of sight completely naked.
My focus is thrown off instantly and I slip on the rotating treadmill, falling forward and banging my head on the con
sole.
The gym spins and drops out of focus and my flimsy body slides off the backend of the treadmill into a heap.
I have knocked myself unconscious.
5.4
It is early evening. I can tell by the dusk outside the large panes of the French windows to the balcony. I awake to that damn awful music thumping in my sore, dizzy head and the vibration felt through the sofa I am laid out on.
I find myself standing directly in front of my door soon enough, staring at the imposing wooden frame, urging myself to discover the inner hero and stride out to confront this inconsiderate new neighbour of mine.
My chest is heaving and my body is leaking sweat. I want to step forward. I want to confront the villain, but my feet won’t move. I am stuck in place. My toes wriggle, but the clammy skin of my bare soles stick to the floorboards like glue.
The beat just won’t stop. It goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and I’m tensing up every muscle, doing all I can to resist screaming out like some petulant child. How dare they force themselves into my life? How dare they control me in this way?
My eyes well up out of pure frustration; feeling like a useless coward, allowing myself to be beaten down this way. Beaten down by the music, beaten down by my self-imprisonment, and beaten down by my own guilt over Sarah.
The bass is relentless, poking fun at me. It rumbles and thumps and laughs at me with each beat. I raise my hands to my ears and cup them tight, squeezing my eyes and grimacing as if that well help block out the imposing noise.
I hear a different sound, muffled by my hands over my ears. It sounds like a bolt being undone. I open my eyes in time to see the front door swinging open. My mouth drops open too. There is no one there in the doorway and I edge myself closer to the frame, inch by inch, peeking out into the dark, under-lit corridor. Empty.
Now that I am standing here in the open doorway, the music is right in my face. The sound is vibrant, insulting and ignorant of my presence. It seeps out of the keyhole and the slits around the door belonging to the furthest apartment. Like on a stage, a solitary working spotlight at the end of the dark corridor lights the offending door.
My body starts to shake from the adrenaline kicking in. I stare down at the red carpet and tentatively step out. Like walking against the angry roar of a hurricane, each step I make is hard work. I feel myself being pushed back, the resistance becoming stronger and more determined, but I keep stepping forward.
I pass one neighbour, and then another, reaching the final door in front of me. I am surrounded by red. The carpet is red, the spotlight has a red hue, and my face is the brightest red of all. A sweaty, clammy, shaky red mess.
I raise my hand, turned into a fist, and direct my knuckles to the door, which now also looks red to me. I rap my knuckles over the wood, knocking hard. I concentrate to control my breathing and keep my heart from ripping out of my ribcage.
I don’t get a response, so I knock again, stronger this time. I am burning up; I am ready for a fight if this turns into one. No physical contact for two and a half years but I’ll give as good as I get if he touches me.
My skin automatically pulls back the blood from the surface, as we once did before the hunt during our primitive years. My face turns from an angry red to a self-protecting white.
Going white is not a result of blind fear; it is a biological reaction to the possibility of being cut open. If our skin is slashed open, we won’t bleed as much. I was ready.
No response and the music laughs at me once again, blaring out with disgusting arrogance. I open my fists and slap both hands down against the door.
I do it again, and I scream.
I scream at the top of my lungs. A war cry.
The music stops. I can’t believe it, and I pull my hands away immediately, like a child scared of being caught. I step back a few, almost stumbling. Without wanting to leave enough time for the door to open on me and for my outburst to be discovered, I rush back into my apartment and swing the door closed behind me.
I breathe heavy and hard.
5.5
Once I have steadied my nerves and calmed down after the adrenaline subsides, I find myself sat in the armchair.
My imaginary girlfriend is stood in front of me, now dressed but only in a thin pale blue vest top, which shows off the outline of her nipples, and a pale blue thong; a pastel vision of feminine cuteness. Her hair has that just out of bed designer look to it, all scrunched up and framing her full cheeks. She now has dimples, I have decided, and her dimples make me smile.
She looks at me as if I am a puppy that has tripped over its own stubby legs.
‘Aw baby, does your head hurt a little?’
‘Just a little sweetheart,’ I reply, watching her posing in front of me.
She stands like a model, slightly changing her position every few seconds, as if to the sound of a photographer’s camera clicking.
She looks sexy; turning her hips, pushing her breasts forward, arching her back and looking over her shoulder towards me. This must mean I’m feeling horny.
‘Is this making you feel better hunk?’
She has a mischievous grin on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. And I have to admit her posturing for my enjoyment is indeed making me feel better, so I nod back. I’m so glad I’ve thought of it.
‘I can tell,’ she giggles, one finger pointing at my growing crotch while the other delicately teases her luscious lips, which have suddenly turned a glossy coat of pink.
She winks, and causes a twitch in my gym shorts.
My length is straining against the material, bursting to get out, so who am I to deny myself? I pull my shorts down just enough and feel my touch for the first time in too long.
‘I want you,’ I whisper.
I want her to be real so I lean my head back over the sofa cushion and close my eyes. Closing my eyes helps me imagine her touch, her warmth.
I feel her hands grip my shoulders, followed by her legs straddling me. There is no material between us, and her soft flesh slides against my chest, still slick with sweat. She lowers herself down onto me and we both gasp; one voice.
All the way down, I exhale with pure lust and desire.
She doesn’t waste any time before rotating her hips and riding me, grinding down to engulf all of my length.
My hands find their way over her pert breasts and then onto those cute hipbones. I grip tight.
I control her movements now, raising her up and down and then pushing her back and forth. I reach the point of climax, and we both release primal, guttural cries of pleasure and relief.
I know the only real thing here is my hand, still wrapped around my erection, but I imagine her body slowing down, resting on my thighs with my shrinking penis still inside her.
I keep my head leaned back, enjoying the after-sex trip. The chemicals surge through my body like heroin for the first time. Who needs drugs?
She kisses me on my neck and then strokes my face; her gentle fingers riding the roughness of my stubble.
‘That was wonderful.’
She speaks softly, before climbing off and standing back up. I can hear the love in her voice. I can hear the warmth.
I open my eyes and my imaginary girlfriend stands in front of me, her smile no longer naughty, but sincerely happy. It must be mimicking the satisfied smile on my face.
‘It must have been all that sweat on you poppet! Nature’s aphrodisiac, drives us girls wild.’
I pull my gym shorts back up without wiping or cleaning below. A second shower of the day is needed and I stand up. I kiss the forehead of my imaginary girlfriend and walk away.
‘That’s true, but it wasn’t the sweat that made you want me. It was my imagination silly, you are just my imagination,’ I say, as a matter of fact.
At the entrance to the hallway, before I disappear around the corner towards my green-glassed shower, I look over my shoulder. My imaginary girlfriend is still stood in the same spot, with her head hung low, an
d I swear I can see a tear running down her cheek.
6.1
I stir, draped in my duvet, without any memory of how I got from my post-masturbation shower to my bed. I open my eyes expecting to see the same usual sight that both warms my heart and then shatters it with guilt; the photo of Sarah smiling. It isn’t there anymore.
I reach my hand out to touch the surface of the bedside cabinet at mattress height. Why do people do that, as if feeling for where something used to be would make it reappear?
The framed photo doesn’t reappear and I panic.
Where the hell is it? Has Sarah taken it back? Has my imaginary girlfriend given into jealously and hidden it? I feel a cold hand on my back and spin round, bouncing on the mattress. The room is dark, but I have no doubt. Sarah!
I jump back, falling off the bed, watching Sarah as she grabs the duvet to create a barrier between us. I climb up the wall so I’m standing again and press my back against the wallpaper. I rub my eyes; no use, she is still there. She opens her mouth and words slither forth, but I can’t make them out. They are a jumble of sounds that doesn’t register.
‘Go away,’ I shout to her ghost, ‘get away from me!’
I run out of the bedroom and then back away from the door, eyes trained on the darkness for any movement of flesh within.
I don’t have to wait long. The flesh of arms and legs move in a gangly fashion, rising up off the bed and towards the light of the living room lamp.
She steps forward and her face becomes unmasked. My imaginary girlfriend; looking much like my masturbation vision last night but now with a crimson red vest and thong on instead of the pale blue number she had on before.
‘Baby? Did I scare you?’
The Haunted Hikikomori Page 4
