First line offered by Marina Osipova
The doorbell rang with shrill urgency. I opened the door yet again. No one was there.
Of course, it would be so. My doorbell was having a day. Nothing I did or said could make her let go off her fear. With all the anxiety, she was close to having a cog attack and I wondered if I should get her checked by a professional. Of course, they wouldn’t really understand the problem. They’ll just open her up, oil her, double check her wires for any cuts and, then, return with a suggestion of buying a new, more reliable door bell. And there lay the problem.
May, my girlfriend, had suggested just the thing earlier that day insisting that my doorbell never rang whenever she pressed the button. She believed the thing had a faulty wiring. Well, in a way she was right. It is wired to my jealous dead-wife’s soul.
When alive, my wife would call my office landline under various pretexts to check I was really there and follow me in her car when I was too cheery about the weekend fishing with my friends. But it was nothing compared to now.
Ever since she died, I felt I wasn’t alone; that I was being watched. I would glance over my shoulder so frequently, I had kinks in my neck every now and then.
When a few months later, I mentioned it to a friend, he suggested that the loneliness was probably getting at me. He set up a blind date with his cousin, May.
Once I reached the venue for the date, my car door wouldn’t open. I had to get out by breaking a window. A few weeks later, when my car failed to start every time I planned a date with her, I sold it and bought a new one but the problem continued and I could see a pattern forming. I started calling May to pick me up instead. It was then that my cellphone stopped working whenever I called her or she called me.
I could clearly see the issue now. The feeling of being watched was intense. I craved being left alone. Desperate to get out of the horror show that my life had become, I requested a witch doctor for help. He was quite understanding, having once suffered similar pain (Not my story to tell). He offered to cage my late wife inside a house fixture and asked me to choose one. I didn’t want her shaking the walls or bringing down the pillars, nor did I want lampposts falling on my head or door handles getting stuck. So, I chose the doorbell, which was out of the way, believing it would cause me the least distress.
Well, so we are here now. The felling of being watched is less intense and limited to the area around the doorbell. But ever since my girlfriend’s mention of a new bell, my doorbell has been ringing frantically every five minutes, demanding my presence. All coddling and reasoning have failed. Frustrated in extreme with the constant ringing that kicks up my heart rate and bring my blood to boil, I finally chuck the doorbell out of the door to be rid of her forever. She can spend the rest of her time in a landfill or, maybe, a recycling plant until the day of judgement.
It is quiet now. The feeling of being watched is gone and I am truly alone. I had believed I would revel in the alone-ness, but weirdly enough, I miss it. I look outside and think of my erratic wife lying outside in the snow. True that she couldn’t feel the elements anymore but still…she loves me, even if a little too much. And I still love her, even if she is being insufferable now a days.
Half an hour later, I still can’t get away from the window, watching her protectively. Car headlights flash ahead. What if it crushes her? I rush outside and pick the doorbell up from the freezing road and bring her back in where it is warm. Placing her on the table, I hear her ring without the wiring; a faint call, reminding she was still there. It is time for tough decisions.
I call May one last time and break up with her. Then I pull off the enchanted rope that the witch doctor had used to tie my wife to the doorbell.
The feeling of being watched is back.
I’m not lonely anymore.
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 