Author: Adam Houten.

The snake lives just inside the door to my flat. It does not let me leave.

Sometimes it slithers into my room and stares at me balefully. Those days I hold and hold in my bodily functions until I can’t hold them in anymore and must make a wild dash to the bathroom, hoping that I can avoid its venomous bite for another day.

Other times it sits on my chest and curls up, a weight I do not dare to shift. On those days I wish I could sink into the surface of the bed, those cruel contours that know my shape too well, and escape the snake for good. On those days I feel as if the snake will never let me go.

It is not easy, living with a snake in your flat. 

The snake does not like other people. I have learnt to order food online, murmur through the door to the driver to ‘Leave it there, mate’ and wait for them to leave the building. Cooking becomes difficult, as does everything else. It crawls up my legs and around my arms, weighing me down until I stumble to a chair or back to bed.
I used to try to call my friends, but the snake would rear up, quivering with malice and ready to strike. I stopped trying. They stopped messaging.

I don’t like to think about how long I’ve had the snake living in my flat.

Sometimes I look outside the window, to see the people walking past, think how much easier their lives are without snakes. Mostly the curtains are closed. The snake likes it better that way.

I see him, this quiet morning, an old man carrying the morning’s paper, the other side of the road. He slips, and I freeze. He falls. It looks bad. I cannot tell, peering through the curtains as I am. I cannot hear him cry out, but I can see his pain. I am silent. I try to move, to my phone, to the door, but I can hear the snake hissing behind me. If I move, it will strike. 

I stand there, minutes feeling like hours, unable to force my eyes away from his pain, unable to help him. He is curled up on the floor now, something damaged in his arm. Tears roll down my face. My head throbs, a dead weight.

Eventually, someone comes, checks him with a stranger’s compassion. Not long later, an ambulance. It blocks my view, and when they drive away he is gone. I stand there for hours. The snake was long back to its spot by the door to my flat. When I finally go to bed I cry in big gulping sobs. I am worse than useless.

The next day I do not leave my bed. I lie cocooned in my duvet and my own sweat. I reach for my phone. So I can find out how to end it all.

A message pops up on the screen on one of the websites I find. A phone number. ‘You are not alone’ it says. You are not alone. I’m not?

I hear the snake surge into the room, its tongue flickering in the air, and I am suddenly filled with a bout of righteous rage.

I tap the number and call it, scrambling back from my bed into the corner of my room. This creature has hounded me for so long, made me afraid in my own house. I don’t want it here anymore, I don’t want to feel afraid, I don’t want to feel alone, I don’t –

There is fury in its eyes as it barrels towards me, body flowing in undulating curves. Up it rears, and the fangs drip with venom. Eyes level with mine, it dares me to continue.

“Hello?” says the voice on the phone.

I freeze. I know with certainty that if I answer it will bite me.

“I know this is hard for you. Whatever creature is threatening you, just know, you are not alone. We can just talk, or if you are in danger, we can send someone to help.”

Those gentle, understanding words break something in me. As the dam bursts open, the snake knows it. It lunges, snaps those razor fangs into my outstretched arm. Venom trickles then surges into my veins. My heart races, my vision blurs. I manage a strained “help” before collapsing to the floor in convulsions.

When I come to I see a young woman with large spectacles and a nose ring using a pronged stick to carefully push the snake into a basket. She pops the lid on quickly and wipes her forehead, before coming back over to kneel next to me.

“You…you can see it?” I ask.

“Only because I knew to look for it. Not everyone will be able to. It’s easier if you have a predator of your own. ‘You’re not alone’ as they say.”

She glances back to my living room, and only then do I notice the panther sniffing sheepishly at my discarded takeaway packaging. I realise what that means, and she must see it on my face.

“They never fully go away,” she says, a wistful tone taking her voice. Then she brightens. “But if you let us help you, and help others in turn, we can stop them from ruling our lives.”

I take her hand.

The venom hurt, but it was only a paralytic. The snake could never truly kill me, I learn, as I meet others with predators of their own. Things don’t get better all in one go. Sometimes my snake sits on my chest again and I cannot believe I was ever free. Other times I let it bite me, ride out the pain and come out more prepared the next time. At a certain point, I start helping others as others helped me. It feels right.

I even saw the old man again and offered to carry his groceries for him. His name is Jimmy. When we got to his door I broke down and told him what I had saw and why I didn’t help him and how awful I felt. He hugged me and told me his daughter had a predator too. She lost her battle. He said he was happy to see that I was doing better, and to call on him whenever my snake was getting too much to handle.

As I walk down the street now, my snake following behind me, I see the other predators dogging others’ heels. See that I’m not alone. Maybe I can help some of them to see that too.