I wasn't always like this, you understand.
I used to socialize. I even had a car. I'd take long, winding trips by the ocean, or just park near the Mill and stare up at the stars. I wasn't one to surround myself with people, but I'm a good listener. I was good at other things, too. I had friends.
I started collecting stories after Mother died. I had more time to tend to them, and to my orchids. People sent me books. I went out less, but I was immersed in my research. Days would pass before I noticed that I hadn't left the house. The phone didn't ring as much. People were moving on with their careers and families. Perhaps they were getting tired of always talking to me.
One morning, I woke up and realized that I had not been out of the house in nearly a week. I needed to visit the market, so I got dressed and walked to the door. Instantly, I was overwhelmed in terror. It felt like snakes were writhing under my skin, trying to burrow their way into my chest. I collapsed on the ground and tried to catch my breath.
The attack was less than a minute, but felt like a lifetime. I retreated to my flowers and calmed myself. Yet, whenever I thought about trying to leave my house, I was again overcome. I knew, just as I knew my own face, that death was waiting for me.
That night, I could hear it call out to me from the forest, like a strange bird.
Eventually, a colleague of mine called the police, because he hadn't heard from me. They sent someone from Social Services. I calmly explained my situation to the social worker. She had beautiful eyes. She gave me the number of a doctor who could help me. I never called.
It's not that I mind living alone. My home is a comfort to me. I don't really need to leave. But now, I hear so few stories. And no one has heard mine.