I Cannot Go Out There Yet

I will try tomorrow, I tell myself when the phone rings. The answering machine is full, which makes me grateful. A relief. My sister is always checking up. What does she think I am doing? Dying in here? I laugh, knowing she will not drive the forty-two minutes it takes to find out. I figure she has befriended my nosy neighbor to try and get my body out before it starts to rot. I do not have a cellphone or a computer. I do not have a TV set. Too fearful of big brother. Books are my companions. I used to have a cat, but my fears are worsening. I do not go outside any more. Have not been out there for three years, maybe. Possibly six. Amazon boxes come. I eat cereal mostly, with powdered milk. Only opening the door to get them inside if no one is in the hallway. If someone is, I do not bother. I pick up my book and begin to read. I know I should call the gas company. It must be a mistake but I do not feel like speaking to a human today. I will try tomorrow. There is a knock on the door. My heart begins beating triple time. I imagine them coming in here. I can hear it in my ears. I sit quietly, not daring to turn the page, for fear they will hear. Footsteps leave. Probably the lady my sister befriended. I do not even know her name, all I know is that I do not like her. I turn the page only after I am confident no one can hear.