Free Zombie Tales: Primrose Court Apt. 205 by Robert Decoteau

 
     
Apt. 205
     
     
     
    The alarm clock chirped its disapproval of
me; I glanced over to see that it was right on time, 9:00. I
slapped it quiet and then laid there on my back for a moment
longer, organizing my thoughts. Today was the big day. Today I
would break my routine and venture out into the world for the first
time in nearly ten years. My task today was to meet Dr. Harriet at
my local Starbucks and have my first face to face therapy session.
Just the thought of it made my fingers tingle and my heart pound a
little harder.
    Agoraphobia is an irrational fear of wide
open spaces, a fear of crowds, or a fear of uncontrolled social
situations. For me it was all three. I don’t leave my apartment…
ever. Some agoraphobic people are plagued by panic attacks. In
fact, many psychotherapists believe the phobia is a byproduct of a
panic disorder. In my case, this is not true. My condition is a
result of conscious decisions. I don’t leave my house because I
don’t want to die. It’s that simple.
    Some might say I’m the luckiest person on the
planet, there was a time when I might have agreed, but now I
believe I’m cursed and one day that curse will be the end of
me.
    Climbing from the warm comfort of my bed I
pulled the sheet off and tossed it into a basket with yesterday’s
bedding. I removed my pajama bottoms and underpants and deposited
them in a separate hamper.
    Lined up on top of my chest-of-drawers was
everything I would need for this part of my morning routine. From a
large box, I removed a single handy-wipe, peeled away the foil
packaging, and sterilized my hands before squeezing them into fresh
latex gloves. I put on my surgical mask and cap. The spray can of
Lysol that I kept on the nightstand was getting low. I would have
to remember to add that to my shopping list. I sprayed the bare
mattress, flipped it, and coated the bottom side as well.
    Next, I used the wipe on the outside of the
Lysol can, focusing heavily on the dispenser button. Finally, I
treated the alarm clock. Each of the buttons was meticulously
scrubbed and I used a folded corner of the wipe to get in all of
the cracks and crevices.
    With the gloves, handy-wipe, and foil wrapper
deposited into the proper disposal receptacle, I moved on to my
bathroom routine. First were the teeth, always the teeth. I
unwrapped today’s toothbrush, applied paste, and began:
twenty-seven little circles for each tooth, spit, rinse,
repeat.
    The brush and its wrapper were deposited in
the trash and I moved on to scrubbing my face. I washed my hands,
put on my second set of latex gloves, and started the shower.
    When I was eight years old, I almost died.
One Sunday we left our little town just outside Dallas, heading for
the country. This was back when my father loved to go on Sunday
drives. About an hour into our trip, my mother saw a sign
proclaiming that the largest petting zoo in the state was just
ahead.
    “Oh, George, that looks like fun. The kids
will love it,” Mother said.
    Of course we stopped. My mother was an animal
lover after all and she wanted her three children to be animal
lovers too.
    My older brother Lenny was ten at the time,
just reaching that point when he had no interest in siblings,
parents, or family outings. He spent much of that afternoon leaning
against a fence post with a grim expression. No amount of coaxing
from our mother would get him excited about our little
interlude.
    Sally and I on the other hand, were ecstatic
about our unplanned stop. Sally, my younger sister, was six years
old. She had been obsessed with bunnies and chicks ever since
Easter a few weeks before. Sally spent the majority of our short
visit folded over the large bin of floppy eared rabbits.
    Growing up in Texas, every little boy
experienced a cowboy phase; some never grow out of it. I was in the
middle of my cowboy phase. I spent the hour long deviation from our
Sunday drive petting the ponies and miniature horses and wishing I
had brought my cowboy hat