Stuck Inside

In the morning, she wakes and fills a cat dish with food.

She shuffles through her home; the diagonal striped wallpaper makes the rooms feel uneasy. There are no mirrors hung.
She tries to find a reflection in her lamps, dresser handles, door knobs, but it is always just the wall behind her. 

She reaches to touch the coffee pot, the toaster, the stovetop, the radio. They turn on before her fingers graze the buttons.
Two pieces of bread, a pat of butter, coffee and sugar. She pulls out a new dozen eggs and takes two. She eats.
She reaches to turn off the radio; it’s off before she handles the knob.
She can’t remember what she’s listened to.
She crosses off the day, Thursday, on her calendar. The clock reads 6:23.
That can’t be right.
She can’t remember using the restroom, brushing her hair, bathing. Yet, she’s no longer in her pajamas.
No matter.
It seems to be afternoon. She buys food online.
There is a knock at the door. She can’t see anyone through the peephole: just her sidewalk, the grass, the street, and vague details of neighbor’s houses.
The knocking is persistent.
“Hello? Hello?”
The door shakes in its frame, the banging is so loud.
“Who’s there?” She calls, but leaves the door unopened.
She checks her computer. A message arrives.
“How long have you lived in your house?”
“I’m not sure,” she writes, “my clocks don’t work.”
In the evening, the cat food is gone. But she hasn’t seen a cat.
She sets the table. Four of each: plates, cups, napkins, silverware.
Alone, she sits to eat. The plates are full: steak, salad, potatoes. Did she cook this? She can’t remember.
Sounds of scraping silverware fill the room, distant laughter, a fridge door closing, juice pouring, drinks clinking. Screeching.
A car erupts through the wall. Glass, candles, the china cupboard all explode. Headlights slam into the room, she raises her arms. A roaring, hot engine comes down on her.

In the morning, she wakes and fills a cat dish with food.
She shuffles through her home.
Coffee pot, toaster, stovetop, radio.
Two pieces of toast, a pat of butter, coffee and sugar; she pulls out a new dozen of eggs and takes two.
She crosses off the day, Thursday. The clock reads 6:23.
She buys food online. When will it arrive?
There is a knock at the door. She can’t see anyone through the peephole. Knocking, knocking, knocking. Banging, shaking. Dust and plaster fall to the ground.
“Hello? Hello? Who’s there? I can’t see you!”
She leaves the door.
“How long have you lived in your house?”
The cat food is gone. The table is set.
Laughter and screeching.
A car barrels through the wall. The dining room explodes. Headlights flare. A roaring, hot engine slams into her.

In the morning she wakes.

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