The night before it happened, I dreamt of cockroaches.
Silent threats inside the home. Unseen until they startle you from across the room. Skittering off in the light.
It had been a month since I had seen the man nailing the flashy flier to the coffee shop bulletin board. An ad printed and distributed for the “Safest Apartments in Town!”
They promised private security guards, available at the complex 24/7.
Watching over you.
Skittering about.
It was exactly what I had been looking for.
It was peaceful, at first. But I made the mistake that people often do with pests. I left too much out in the open. It had been a lovely night up until. A night out with friends, a late arrival home.
I was asleep when it began. Pests emerge in darkness.
It was not clear when I awoke what was happening. Not at first. A weight pressing against me, a cold sharpness on my throat. A tugging at my underwear.
“Ruby,” he moaned. “Ruby.”
I grabbed at the knife. I kicked. I struggled.
Blood pouring.
Slippery.
A hot shower of red life spilling across my face, my neck. My hands, gripping nothing but the warmth that they would miss when it was gone. All gone.
His hands, gripping my hair.
Dragging.
Pulling. To the floor.
Slick tile, cool against my bare legs.
“You stay in here and you do not move.”
A washcloth against my neck. Feet against the wall, back against the bathroom door.
Vermin, skittering around my apartment.
Pants zipping.
The lights are off. Skittering, skittering.
Silence.
My palms cannot grip the handle. They cannot grip. A laugh, bubbling up from somewhere beyond me. Is this how I die? The door opens.
My phone is there, on the bedside table. Quick retreat. Dial tone rings once.
“I’m bleeding. I’m bleeding to death.”
“Stay on the line, ma’am.”
A knock at the bathroom door.
“Security, Ruby! We heard there was a disturbance. Let me in.”
“Do not let him in.”
“It’s security-”
“We haven’t notified security. Do not let him in.”
“You need to let me in! I can help you.”
“The police are three minutes away. Do not let him in.”
A kick at the door. “I am not a threat! You need to let me in!”
Breathe held.
Sirens.
The knocking stops.
Police search my home.
Mens underwear. A hat that is not mine. A keyring, heavy with opportunity.
They search the apartment security guard - scratch marks on his scavenging mandible.
A conclusion made.
I have lived contaminated ever since. It has been twenty years.
They’ve let him out of his containment. Skittering, skittering. Out into the community, out where I can see him.
In my dream, the roaches had been running. I had been killing them. So it is.
The sterile coolness of a pistol purchased is a welcome control.
I turn on the light.
He will see.
I cannot tolerate a pest.
