A Strange Morning

You know the sounds that houses make? Apartments make them, too. Things settle. Things creak. The air conditioner kicks on with an almost vehement force if you bother to pay it any attention. What's unique about apartments, though, is that you can sometimes hear what your neighbors are up to. You can sometimes catch the murmuring undertones of a television set. The muted slam of a closing door. The stampede of footsteps climbing up and down the stairs, the jingle of keys in the hallway outside your door. It's comforting, actually, those noises, those presences of other living, breathing people all around you. I suppose it's more comforting if you know your neighbors (I know not a one). But for those like me who never bother getting chummy with the people who live literally on the other side of your hallway or even walls, the comfort comes from the ability to blame certain things on the activities of those other people.

It is therefore intensely uncomfortable when you find that you cannot.


I woke up at one of my usual wake up times (I think it might have been arounddddd 7 am? That sounds about right. The sun was most definitely up). I don't know about the rest of you, but whenever I wake up I have to immediately use the bathroom. Every time. Like an imperfect clock. So I grabbed my phone, shoved my glasses onto my face and wandered into the bathroom.

I knew that my mother was already gone, it being Saturday and all, and she'd mentioned that she'd be heading to work even earlier than 5 am because we had somewhere to be in the early afternoon. So that left me, my step father--who was out cold, sleeping in their room--and the cat.

So I was very, very puzzled when, as I was in the bathroom half-asleep, I heard a distinctly familiar tune. At first this did not bother me. I barely recognized the tune at first, but the more I thought about it, the more familiar it became. I strained to listen--had it just been my imagination?--and it played again. I frowned. I blinked. I knew that song all right--Twisted Nerve. A song used in the Kill Bill series, and more recently known as Tate's theme from American Horror Story.

I thought, well, that's odd. But it didn't trouble me, not then. I was still half-asleep, you see, and I rather liked that song. It didn't even occur to me to find it strange that it did not, in fact, seem like it was coming from any of the neighboring apartment units, not even the people above us (who I tended to hear most often).

The TV, I had assumed. Mine or perhaps my mother's. Or a phone.

Then I wandered back into my bedroom, and what I saw woke me up far more assuredly than the first few bars of Twisted Nerve.

My blinds were open.

They weren't open entirely--maybe about five inches. But still. I had not done it. Had they been like that before I wandered into the bathroom? I honestly couldn't remember, but I feel like I would have noticed, seeing as they are right next to my head when I sleep.

Maybe my mother did it when she came into my room this morning (something she always did before she left to work, whether I remember it or not). I immediately dismissed this as possible. My mother hated it when I left my blinds open like that when I was still sleeping. She certainly wouldn't have done it when she left at 4 am, with the sun not even up.

Still, I called her. Asked if she'd been in my room (she had). She had no idea what I was talking about with the blinds--maybe it was Frankie? she'd asked. He did like playing with the strings. But Frankie had been in the sink when I'd gone to the bathroom, and he'd been in there with me the whole time--and her solution for the music--perhaps it had been John's phone?--did not make any sense. His phone is old. He does not know how to put ringtones on it. And if he did, I seriously doubt he would have used Twisted Nerve.

Maybe it was the people upstairs, she suggested. Maybe it was your TV.

The TV was the likelier cause, and when I turned to consider it, it was indeed still on. But the volume was on low. Even standing two feet away from it I had to strain to hear what it was saying/playing. There was no way I would have been able to hear it all the way in the bathroom so distinctly. My mother's TV? No dice. It wasn't on at all.

But like I said, I was half awake. Maybe the whistling tune wasn't Twisted Nerve at all, but had jostled something in my brain to make me think of the song, and my memories, in cohoots with my half-asleep brain, played it again for me. Maybe I just imagined it.

But that doesn't explain the blinds.

(I know, I know, I posted this song already. Here, have another:)

I'd also like to add that my strange morning probably was a result of my being not-quite-awake. It is entirely possible that I opened the shades my self, and just didn't remember. Either way, I just wanted to write out how it felt cuz why not.