Landon Smith hears a noise in his apartment, but his butler is set on clearing his worry.

The only thing that I knew for certain when I woke up this morning is that I had to scratch another tally mark on the wall to commemorate the completion of three weeks trapped inside my apartment.

This neighborhood is a quiet one and I don't really have the friend to call for help. Yeah, I have tried but I never cry "help" or "fire". I just don't feel like anyone would really care. This complex is a dead end street and everyone around me was fine with settling on the bottom of the cesspool. I just happen to be one of those blokes, one of those pieces of crap that likes to float on the surface to see what I am missing.

This isolation isn't unwelcomed. No, I didn't ask for it. This wasn't a normal thing. I should be freaked out. I should be worried that the outside world seems to break down into squiggle marks and child like motifs, flocks of birds soaring through as if the letter of the day was V. My peep hole also gave a fish eye view of those few who were concerned about me. The money man, the titty lady, the suit. They would knock and it would muffle against the force field. They would speak. I could see their words float out from their mouths and above them. It was a language I couldn't understand. It was familiar in a tonal since, full of emotion but no definite meaning. Each visitor fascinated me and I stared and soaked them in quietly for the fear that my noise would scare them away. A safari of memories outside my door.

I ate through my eyes. I ate up every inch of the apartment. Daily there would be an adventure to scan the corners for spiders and under the bed and in the closets for monsters. There were the cabinets that could house mice, but they never were there. I was top notch at keeping the vermin at bay.

Someone was looking out for me. There was fresh food every morning in the refrigerator spread out on different shelves, hinting at what used to be around them though strangely never were.

And so, blinking up to see the ceiling, I think about what I will do today. The ritual. Checking the rooms. The food. Who would visit me today? What was there to eat? I smile with pride at how I have entertained myself for so long, kept my sanity held, not asking those questions that have no answer.

And then a door slammed shut. Sharp, clear noises. Sharp and close. Who was in my apartment with me...and do I really want to know?

"Maybe it’s the post man Sir Landon. You should go to see if he has a package for you." My sophisticated feathered friend lowered his gaze to mine and I met his eyes over his massive beak. His monocle twitched in anticipation of my answer.

"Nonsense Sassoon. The postman has never come. No one comes and I don't go out. Did I take my pill last night? I don't want to have to count them again."

Now there were footsteps. The side table. The drawer. The bottle. The pills. Black, shiny, tiny orbs.

Under the last tally mark there was a dot. A bitter sigh of relief.

"It seems you did take it sir. I'm here aren't I?"

"Silly me Sassoon. Of course I took it. You always take care of me."

Though a beak isn't supposed to contort into any expression, he smiled at me. His neck feathers ruffled up in pride and he nodded to the side. “I do sir".