The 3 a.m. Stranger

To The Stranger Who Pounded on my Door at 3 am,

I heard your labored breaths. In the dark, I mustered the courage to look through the peephole. I saw your dimly lit, straw-colored hair. Hair I didn’t recognize. You pounded on the door. The doorknob rattled. I backed away and stared at the copper knob. The metal rang as it shook.

My hands trembled. My heart dove.

The door shuddered in fear as you pounded. Neither of us spoke. But my questions lingered in the air between us. Who are you? Why are you here?

I silently studied the front door like it would tell me what to do. But it didn’t. I only heard your rattling attempts to break through the barrier that kept us inches apart. Without thinking, I slowly lifted my hands to meet the door. You, a hot breath’s length away. The chill of the white-painted wood sturdy beneath my hands.

I pounded back. Twice.

I woke my roommates. In a dizzying panic, we hunkered down in the corner of our living room. Silently, we waited for you to either give up or get in. You started thudding on the apartment door next to us. We called the police. Can you describe the suspect? I stammered something like st-t-straw colored.

“GET AWAY! I’LL KILL YOU!”

Was that you yelling? Were those my neighbors’ screams? You came back to our door. Were your knuckles bleeding? I never knew who you were. But the pounding of your presence that night remains.

For weeks, your apparition stalked my dreams. Again and again. You haunt me with a camera through dark, chilly neighborhoods. You take pictures of me. White flashes fill my vision. Electric chills shimmy from the back of my skull to my fingertips.

I feel your hot, dripping breath down the back of my neck. I spin around, grab fistfuls of your dark zip-up hoodie, and gaze into your void eyes. Your pupils expand as I shout.

“I will remember your face”.

Your golden hair glistens in the illumination of a single street lamp, exposing you for all you are. Exposing me for all I am.

. . .

You left me with nothing but questions. They spiraled in my mind as I tried to sleep. They hovered above me as I stared at walls and ceilings. They taunted my restless mind.

What did I mean when I pounded back? What did it mean to you? Was it a threat? An invitation? An agreement?

A dream is like a good poem. Both reveal the truth. They show you what you want, but never knew you wanted. They give you second chances to relive a moment the way you wish it happened. I asked my dreams for answers. I asked my dreams about you.

And they answered. Metaphorically, of course, as dreams/poems do.

The fear of voyeurism was your camera flashing in the dark.

Looking out the peephole was studying your face under a street light.

Pounding back was grabbing you by the collar.

You revealed an instinct. An urge to expose my exposer. To look into your eyes and tell you that you hold no power over me. To speak your language and beat you at your own game. To see every vulnerable bit of you, and profess that

“You. Don’t. Scare. Me”.

From,

The Girl Who Pounded Back

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