Break Free

She waited by the door.

Always she waited by the door, fingers gripped to the mail slot so hard it left divots in her skin. She'd pull them away and rub at them until they turned red, until the knuckles were sore from popping but the skin was smooth again.

Sometimes the mailman was late. On those days she cut herself on the metal slot sometimes. She cut herself, darted to the kitchen and ripped open Band-Aids with her teeth. Her heart beat her ribs as she washed off the blood with alcohol. She did not feel the sting.

A car would stop outside. There'd be the sound of a killed engine; of the little plastic flag with the flower painted on it 'snick-ing' up. She'd crawl along the floor on hands and knees, plant herself flat on a faded carpet and peek through again.

Agoraphobia he called it. He clicked his little pen and signed off on her label. He signed away her terror of the pavement with a flick of his wrist; the memories of him pressing her face to asphalt and holding her hair to paint it with blood and skin. His hands on her throat, strangling, pressing in, leaving bruises. He was her dybbuk. What the world took from him he took from her, from her flesh and her pride. He was dead inside and he fed off of her soul to live again.

Agoraphobia. A flourish and a signature. Swallow these pills please, ma'am.

She opened the door. Her hands jittered on the knob. Her eyes darted left and right. She was the doe and the yard was the open field. The dead grass was overgrown. The maple tree had been downed by lighting and was slowly rotting away. She ran her tongue over her lips and slunk forth.

Shoulders hunched. Heart in throat. Its beating was the pounding of his feet moving up behind her.

To the mailbox. She tore the door open and grabbed the bills. She sobbed. The neighbor watering his garden watched in confusion that was immediately threatening. The woman walking her bichon rolled her eyes. A boy on his tricycle would ask his mommy what was wrong with the crazy lady over dinner that night.

Dart inside. Darkness, home, sanctuary. She wrote out checks and tore advertisements precisely four times, each in perfect squares, bending the paper back and forth and back and forth until it was pliable. Back and forth and back and forth until it could be broken with just a single tug.

She did this every day.

On the morning of October 6th 2009, at precisely 10:43, the mail came to her. She was crouched upon the rug, counting to ten again and again, preparing herself with her muscles taut and her fingers curling. They reached up for the knob and then, like God reaching down to touch her, it slipped through the slot and onto the floor.

She lifted the flap and peered through, but God was already gone.

On October 7th at 10:45, the mail came through again. And on October 8th at 10:36, it came through again. Each time she hugged it to her chest and ran to her room. Each time she threw herself onto the bed and sobbed with relief and confusion and joy.

The months went by. She stopped trying to see him after the first attempt because she was afraid to look. Doubts plagued her mind. Was it him? Was it him, teasing her, mocking her, blocked only by the six bolts nailed into her door? Was he waiting for the day she would open it to thank him and would he take her on that faded rug? Would he dye it fresh and red?

October to November. November to December. He began talking to her on December 25th at 10:53, the day she forgot Christmas. It was not his voice. He gave her a card with a tree on the front. The glitter got on her hands and she didn't mind.

"Happy Holidays, ma'am."

She said nothing. He left.

There were stories after that. He gave her the letters and painted stories with his words. His voice was low and soothing and kind. She could see the tips of his calloused fingers, a little dirt beneath the nails.

"Should see the sunset tonight, miss. Really a looker. Red and orange and yellow. Like a fire that doesn't burn, you know? With clouds to break the heat. I could take pictures for you, if you like."

"Yes," she would whisper. "Please."

And he did. He gave her pictures of the sky. Pictures of people. Pictures of the grass and the houses and the street. Children playing kickball and mothers kissing scraped knees. Bronzed men on rooftops fixing shingles after it hailed. He passed her the world through the mail slot and she pinned it to her wall.

Then one day he stopped coming. She crouched by the door and waited. 11:00. 11:23. 11:57. She bit her cheeks to bleeding. She scratched at the wallpaper and tore it off to curl between her fingers. Still he didn't come, and she ran to her room where she kept the world and she desperately searched for the last piece of it he'd given her.

There was writing on the back.

"Michael Evans

7843 Parkside Avenue, Seattle Washington

I think you should come see me today, Miss Adams.

The world is a wonderful place to be."

And she opened the door and crossed the street.