Through the Window

by Ashna Yakoob

It was 5pm on the dot and it was time for a walk. I snuck out while she wasn’t watching, which wasn’t difficult because she was engrossed in some cartoon.

Not that I have anything against cartoons. It’s just that it looked like a spin-off of the revival of the shitty video on demand sequel of some animal detective show, this time centering around a hamster whose method of solving crimes consisted of rolling around in a hamster ball until it cracked a lead in the case. The weary human sidekick frantically followed the hamster detective (who went by the name of Guinea PI) and picked up the pieces left in its destruction. It was a thankless job and it showed. Perhaps she connected emotionally to the overlooked human sidekick. 

I quietly slipped down the fire escape and set about the world, fresh and new to me at the time. It was just about getting dark and the street was warmly lit by the occasional street lamp. She didn’t like it when I went out after dark. She believed demons hid in the trees, waiting to latch on pretty, young girls who wear a bit too much perfume. 

I would push her on this. Did demons only latch on to women walking under trees at night?

However, she wouldn’t hear any of it. Speaking more on the subject would simply attract more demons so it’s best leave it all unsaid.

I wouldn’t mind if a demon latched onto me. If that’s what the demon needed to do to survive, I wouldn’t mind offering up my body so that it could continue its existence. What if this was all to support his demon family? Perhaps, it would be a nuisance. But I don’t think I would be entirely opposed to it. I have faith we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement.

I continued to walk, peering into the windows that passed me by. I was fascinated by the multitude of worlds inside. Each room was an entirely different cosmos. I made my usual rounds, glancing inside and attempting to absorb as much information as I could with a second-long glance.

First was Mrs. Pearson’s apartment. She was performing her usual satanic rituals, probably to curse her husband who had walked out on her earlier this year after twenty-five years of marriage. They had seemed like a run of the mill old couple. He read the newspapers, she immersed herself in the art of baking goods. Now, she was sticking pins into dolls and burning incense. It seemed to be the natural progression of life. 

For fear of lurking too long outside her window and inviting her wrath, I continued forward. A few closed windows later, I stumbled upon Victor the European dancer’s window. He was practicing his twirls to EDM music, a combination that looked odd, yet so graceful it was difficult to tear my eyes away. He continued to twirl until he received a phone call. He shut off the music and answered, his face immediately falling the moment he heard the person on the other side of the line. It could have been a former lover, an estranged parent, an old friend. There was no way of telling. He promptly hung up and continued to twirl, this time exuding anger and intensity, as if he could twirl his problems away.

In the next window were a few local students. They were sitting back, drinking beer, and watching a black and white film, as students and/or pseudo-intellectuals did. They seemed so free, unconfined by authority figures or responsibilities. One of them caught me peering into their lives, violating the unspoken agreement between neighbors, yet indulging in the universal desire to watch other people’s lives unfold. Either to see what you’ve missed out on or assure yourself you’re not crazy for acting the way you do behind closed doors. I quickly walked away, as he closed the blinds of their window, shutting themselves off from outside perception.

The last window was usually my favorite. Typically, inside would be a frail, old woman by the name of Ms. Jane Clyde. She would always catch me staring through the window and would smile and wave. Sometimes, she would leave a cup of apple cider or a plate of cookies at her door for me, so we could sit and enjoy each other’s company, separated only by a window. She seldom left her house, for reasons I did not know. She could have been an agoraphobe, or it could have had something to do with the overbearing Mr. Clyde, whose mere shadow seemed capable of something vile. There was no way of telling.

Now, for the fifth day in a row, there was no one inside. The living room looked as though it hadn’t been touched. The half-eaten sandwich remained on the table, yearning to be finished, and Ms. Jane Clyde’s afternoon cup of tea sat on the counter, untouched and probably freezing. The house felt stagnant and the furniture looked as though it had been collecting dust, growing cold in Ms. Clyde’s absence. To the layperson’s eyes, it was as though this house had always been abandoned, reflecting a life of desolation. The house was begging me to accept that its past was an illusion, that it had never been brimming with the love and life of dear Ms. Clyde.  

I grew worried for her, but who could I tell? Surely, there was someone closer to her who must have noticed her absence. Or perhaps she took a last minute getaway upstate. Of course, she wouldn’t stop to tell the girl who walked by her window every day at 5pm. She could have left a note. But, it was understandable that she didn’t. I was nobody to her. She was everything to me.

I headed back home, dreading what awaited me there. Ms. Clyde’s absence weighed on me. Was there anything I could do? Anyone I could tell? I stopped to ponder. Then, I kept walking. 

There was nobody.

Ashna Yakoob is a writer based in Philly and NYC. She is interested in what makes us uncomfortable and flinch. Occasionally, she reads legal documents to pay her bills.