Shady
“I’m telling you!” Paul slammed his fist onto the mirror hanging on the wall to emphasize his point. The mirror shattered. “I’m not paranoid!” He ran his cut fingers through his unruly, dark hair. “Scratch that. I don’t think I’m being watched; I know I’m being watched. I can feel it.” He shuddered. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.” In frustration, he threw his arms up in the air. “I’m going crazy!”
He dropped to the faded black leather couch with a long exhale. “I can’t even shit in private! They’re… always …watching…” His heart pounded in his chest. “I told so many people and no one will help.” He clutched his face in his hands and slowly rocked back and forth. “Why won’t they go away…” he trailed off. Jerking his hands from his face, he looked around, scanning for his nemeses. “Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t do anything!” His eyes grew large and wild. Jumping up, he approached the window. Breathing heavily, his breath showed in the chilly air.
The snow sparkled in the blaring sun. It was bright, but it was below freezing with long icicles hanging from the house next door. The houses were so close together that he could see inside of the neighbor’s living room when the light was on. It wasn’t. He rubbed his eyes, and then peered out of the window again, snow blinded. He knew the neighbors weren’t watching him. They had left for vacation a few days before.
He pressed his face against the cool glass, creating a foggy impression of his forehead. He strained to see the ground beneath his window. Were those footprints in the snow, frozen to reveal that his suspicions were correct? It certainly looked like that!
Panting, he whirled away and stumbled to the door. Wearing only a thin, sweat stained T-shirt and lounge pants, he rushed outside. His feet slipped on the ice. He attempted to right himself but failed. He fell, slamming his knees and elbows on the hard earth. Not registering the pain, he forced himself up. He was certain that they were footprints! Not that he needed evidence, but it would help to alleviate the prying accusations of insanity within his own brain.
Oblivious to the bitter cold, he trudged onward, slipping and sliding all the way to the side of the lengthy apartment building. He stood still in the frigid wind, studying the frozen indentations. Sure enough, they were footprints! They were a set of human footprints that led to the window from the sliver of land between the two houses. Large feet, like a man’s feet. Like a large man’s bare feet. He could clearly see the outline of five toes. This person had not been wearing shoes. His breathing increased. What kind of weirdo was stalking him? He frantically looked around. He didn’t see anyone, just a quiet, serene day in the city. But he knew they were watching. Of course, they were watching! They were always watching! Cursing softly, his eyes darted around.
He shook his head, a worried expression on his gaunt face. “Who would do this?” he muttered, his breath showing. He looked around again, searching for prying eyes. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” he yelled, hoping that was heard. He had made sure he had done everything he could to be a law-abiding citizen. He had recently served a six-month prison sentence for assault. It had been the worse experience of his life, having been forced to take weekly injections of an unknown substance. They claimed it was an anti-psychotic medication, but how was he to know what it truly was? Just take their word for it? Maybe it was poison! Maybe it was making him nuts and slowly causing his brain to erode until he died! And why had they suddenly stopped administering the substance a week prior to his release? They had answered his questions with a simple explanation; the doctor had ordered a specific number of injections, and they had all been administered. The treatment had run its course. However, in his vast experience of taking anti-psychotics for much of his life, this was not how it worked. He hadn’t even been prescribed medication for when he was freed. It didn’t make sense.
Initially he had suspected that his probation officer and his flunkies had been spying on him, but now he doubted it. His probation officer was a jerk, but he would not sneak up to his window, barefooted in the snow, to try and catch him breaking the rules of his probation. He frowned, uncertain. Would he?
His attention returned to the footprints. His gaze followed them. They led back around the house. His eyebrows rose, a horrifying thought entering his mind. Is the barefooted man in his home?
He warily made his way around the house, careful not to fall, following the prints. He had left the door open when he had investigated outside. He eyed the room from where he stood on the stoop. Nothing unusual was noted. Holding his breath, he stepped into his apartment and quietly closed the door behind him.
He rubbed his arms vigorously, suddenly acknowledging the cold. He tentatively stepped toward the couch. Slowly easing himself to a sitting position, his eyes scanned over the room, searching for an intruder. Nothing seemed out of place. He lived in a small studio apartment, and he could see in the bathroom from where he sat. The shower stall stood empty; the shower curtain crumbled in a ball beside the toilet. There wasn’t any place to hide.
He was aware that the room was not a place to be trusted. His probation officer had made the arrangements for him to live here, a home for a convict, a half-way house. It must be under supervision. It had to be! There was no such thing as privacy after being incarcerated. They wanted you to mess up so they could haul you away again. But where were the cameras? Where did they hide the microphones? He had torn the place apart looking for surveillance equipment. He had even ripped down the ceiling. Not one tile of the drop ceiling remained intact. They had been thrown in a heap on the floor beside the piles of pink insulation. He had smashed his television set, and then had promptly discarded it in the dumpster in the back yard. He had used a hammer on his cell phone, destroying it. That went in the dumpster as well.
He began rocking back and forth, his eyes continuing to scrutinize the area. His heart began pounding again. His body trembled and his perspiration increased. His breathing became choppy as anxiety rushed over him. He had removed all of the outlet covers and light switch plates. The two light fixtures had been disconnected, leaving bare bulbs hanging in their places. No monitoring devices had been found.
He jumped up, his arms raised to the wooden joists of the ceiling. “Please,” he implored. “I can’t take this!” He yelled something unintelligibly, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t do this anymore!” Feeling the sudden need to flee, he wrenched the door open and ran outside, forgetting it was slippery.
Delete Created with Sketch.
The heavy-set, balding man lowered the binoculars, and then removed the headphones he had been wearing. He slowly took a sip of his hot coffee, undisturbed about the unconscious man sprawled out in the yard. He casually glanced at the thin man who sat beside him. “Looks like this investigation is over.” He glanced at his watch. “Time is 1430.”
The thin man looked at the scene before him with obvious concern. He had seen the man slip and hit his head. He doubted that anyone would find the injured man any time soon as his location was somewhat isolated. “Should we call an ambulance, John? Anonymously, of course.” He could see blood forming in a pool around the fallen man’s head, staining the snow red.
“Let him freeze to death,” was John’s callous response. If the weather didn’t kill him, the toxins he had been injected with surely would. He gathered the stack of paperwork on the table before him and pushed his chair back. He looked grimly at his intern who was still staring at the incapacitated man lying motionless next door.
They had relocated from a van parked down the road, to this apartment two days ago when the occupants left for a vacation. Although the family was confused that they unexpectedly won an all-expense paid trip to Florida from a lottery that they had never even entered, they didn’t hesitate to escape the bleak New England winter.
“Paul, I realize this is your first time in the field, but this is the protocol. I’ve been doing this for a long time. The subjects are to be studied. They’re all degenerates who nobody cares about. We collect the data, and then we leave. That’s it.” He stood and added, “If you don’t think you can handle the job, maybe you should stick to working in the office.”
Paul had just witnessed first-hand what the experimental serum’s effect had been to the man. He had observed the subject, Mr. Pellater, rapidly transform from a confident young man who had been working hard to turn his life around, to a pathetic shell of a human being riddled with panic and anxiety.
It appeared that the paranoia had averted his attention from his basic needs. He hadn’t consumed anything in three days. Showering had been nonexistent. He had rapidly spiraled downward, losing his grip on reality. Paul had seen him tear his assigned room apart in an uncontrollable frenzy, searching for hidden taps and cameras. In fact, he had been unwittingly close to discovering one of them when he had smashed the mirror. He had, however, managed to destroy the expensive spying apparatuses that were located in the television set and cell phone.
It had been painful to watch, gut-wrenching actually. Last night he had seen him sneak around the house, carefully ambling through the freshly fallen snow outside of his room’s window. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he had peered inside. He stood there for quite a while in the brutal elements. He had been wearing the same sweat-stained T-shirt and lounge pants that he currently wore. And he was barefooted.
From where he had sat, Paul had easily noted how red the man’s feet had become. Eventually the subject had turned to leave the window. His feet had changed in color to white with a bluish tinge. The man didn’t seem to notice though as he cautiously made his way back inside. Paul had put the binoculars down and briefly turned away with an involuntary shudder. This was torturous. This poor man was a victim of a cruel, government-funded experiment.
The bald man scrutinized Paul, wondering if the thin man’s conscience would earn him a death sentence. “You good?”
Paul swallowed hard but didn’t say anything further. He knew they were listening. They were always there, watching and listening. And he didn’t want to end up being a statistic. He was aware of what happened to whistle blowers. Ironically, they had all committed suicide. He looked away from Mr. Pellater and picked up his neatly stacked paperwork. It was time to leave and report their findings. The clean-up crew was already on their way to conceal any evidence that the men had ever been there.
Fling Thing
I have never been nor will I ever be a stalker but I have craved a partner that sent vibes through me in just the sound of her voice. Did I sync with the rhythm of words as they flowed out her lips, or did I float with the meaning of what she tried to say? Guess what? Neither. You see, I noticed a body rhythm that talked for her as she expressed how she enjoyed her day with me. I focused on this strong vibe of hers that was searching for my satisfaction in our experience. I was floored but she couldn't tell it. I could've stepped into her skin, like I step into a jacuzzi seeking the warmth in my bones. When she kissed me and walked away, I felt lost like someone blew out my candle. I wasn't going to be satisfied until I saw her shut the door of her car and drive away. But because she pulls energy from a far, she was stopped by a guy before she entered her car. I stood there and stared at her to see if she was giving him the same body rhythm she gave to me. I shared moments with her that could go down in history books. I made love to her with my eyes, I didn't just look. So it was important for me to see if what we shared was her introduction to everyone. They talked, I stared. They talked longer, I stared. Then she kissed him on the cheek and got into her car and drove off. My conclusion is phenomenal, the body rhythm she gave me was all mine.
Looking Out For You
It’s been a week.
He is staring. He is following, stalking. He checks to see if he is being followed, looks around his dusty brown minivan for cameras and sound equipment. When he drives it is the speed limit every time, following every traffic law, using every kind gesture. He puts on his hazards at times to let people around him, just as you’d expect from any kind old man.
When he’s noticed my car I’ve noticed that he keeps away from the windows and props up a cardboard cut-out to make me go away. I keep a hood up to protect from the cameras in front of his house, I pretend to look into a random mailbox as if I’m doing something not involving him and then be on my way. Sometimes I just drive.
At eight-thirty every night, he hops into his minivan and drives to Sabrina’s house. He parks on the side of the road across from her place, and looks in knowing she’s a busy college student that’s still very much awake. I’ll notice a cheeseburger he’s shoving into his mouth, fries, soda. Sometimes I think of the Big Kahuna scene in Pulp Fiction and be tempted to hop into his car and steal his food, forcing him to watch me swallow it down. I’d love to stick it to him in this way.
As it is, I’m sat a block away from Sabrina’s, eyes directly onto the professor that’s unknowingly facing me. I think to myself that I can take him out. It’s the seventh night and Sabrina’s expecting a call. Tonight I brought my own cheeseburger and fries. I eat some as I watch and pull out my phone. It rings for her.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“He’s sat in front of your place again.” I smack my lips a bit without control.
“Oh my God.”
“He’s just sitting, not doing anything. It’s hard to see with my car off, though. I can tell he’s still and facing your house but that’s it.”
“I hate this. I hate this so much.”
“I know. I’m pulling out my camera and zooming in on him. I don’t know the law well but after a week of this we should have enough to go to the police, wouldn’t you think?”
“I have no idea,” Sabrina responded. “I don’t know what they’ll do, if anything, without a ‘crime.’ I hope it’s enough for a restraining order. I just want him to stop. I don’t want to keep having to worry about this.”
“I understand.” I get my camera rolling and set it on the dash. “I’ve got it fixated on him now. What a filthy man.”
“I want to go out there and key his car and smash his windows and slash his tires and terrify him into never coming back here.”
“I can work him up,” I tell her. “I have a flashlight in my glovebox, I could shine it on his car and honk my horn, get his blood pumping.”
“That’d be something,” she says, “but I don’t want anyone else annoyed. We’re all college students here.”
“Yes, but anyone would understand if we explained the situation. It’s not very late, for us it’s not, anyway, and I think getting the word out is the best thing to do.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. This can’t keep happening. I cannot keep dealing with this with nothing done about him.”
“I know. Should I try to scare him?”
“Go ahead.” She paused. “Don’t film this part of scaring him.”
“How come?”
“I don’t want anything used against us if this gets any worse or any bigger than it is.”
“I’ve seen his minivan before; he has a dashcam. He’s going to be recording everything so it wouldn’t matter what we do. I think I should keep it going.”
“Alright.”
“Right.” The phone falls through my hands and I pick it back up and explain to Sabrina what the bit of noise was.
As I get it back to the setting I had it at before, I notice through the lens that he’s shifted and begun staring at my car. I see a phone set up to stare at me. Without warning I see him turn the key and ignite the car to life.
“Sabrina, he’s turning his car on.” I keep still and have a sudden thought to duck down, no longer thinking of pulling out a flashlight.
“Okay, okay. Tell me when he starts to move.”
“I will.”
Suddenly, the car does move. It comes toward me and I consider ducking again, but I don’t. I feel frozen. He moves slowly, but when he does come and pass my car, I involuntarily lock eyes with him. I see him look at me, into me. Maybe, for the first time, he knows it’s me that’s followed him for so long, a student. Maybe this means he’ll look for a restraining order against me, meaning I can’t act dumb in his class anymore. I can’t hide. I check my phone and Sabrina is still on the line.
“Hey, he just drove off.”
“Good,” she replies. “Thank God.”
“He looked at me,” I say. “We locked eyes for a moment when he passed. He has to know who I am now. The car, my face.”
“Oh, fuck. Look, thank you so much for everything and being here, but please be safe.”
“I am, I will be.”
“Do you have any weapons with you?”
“I have my switchblade and the pepper spray you gave me.”
“Okay. I want you to be safe, I really do. It should be me out there looking after myself. I’m sorry about all this trouble.”
“You’re fine,” I assure her. “It’s okay. I’m here to help, and that scared me, sure, but it’s the seventh night and there’s no way I don’t have enough footage to go toward a restraining order.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Just until nine, do you think you could move up to where he parked in case he comes back?”
“Of course.” I sit myself back into the seat and turn on the car. “Tomorrow when you’re paid you’ve got to get a Ring doorbell camera installed. Please don’t forget about that.”
“I won’t. How could I?”
I get the car moving once my seatbelt is fastened on. My drink stirs and shifts as I go.
“Those cameras are such good lifesavers, even our charming professor has one.”
As I say this, I notice a car ahead of me who goes a normal speed, but as I roll to the stop sign they begin to feel like they’re moving faster. Up and up. It’s a minivan, a brown-looking minivan with an out of state license. Wisconsin. The van zooms and it reminds me of the professor’s. It’s coming.
“Does he really?” Sabrina asks. “What a hypocrite!”
I hear her come through but I don’t listen. The van speeds more and more as it comes closer and closer, and as I watch I feel glued to the stop sign. It’s not until I realize this feeling that I let my foot off the break and continue forward. The minivan has the same four-way stop approaching but does not slow down.
“This guy’s going to speed past the stop sign,” I think out loud.
“Who?”
The van’s speed climaxes, and I expect it to continue in a rush past the stop sign and out of view. Without warning the van suddenly turns, and I am directly struck head on.
Second-Story Man
It's a boy.
He looks like his mother, and a good thing, too. His father is clever, but not pretty. His mother is both.
The photographs on the mantle are tastefully mediocre. Smiles and teeth for the camera, cloth backdrops of a department store studio. Small knickknacks whisper stories that I never had the knack to hear.
Swaddled and smiling, he peers from within a blue blanket in glossy eight by ten.
A souvenir mouse-ear hat, perched atop the mantle clock, goes with the canvas print on the wall. The family is flanked by beloved characters and a storybook castle rises in the background.
The first time I went to that magical place was with her; she was a freshman and we'd been dating for a while. For years, we were in love, until she wasn't.
Red bow wraps training-wheeled bicycle, his gap-toothed smile is a sunbeam. A Southern-Living worthy Christmas tree twinkles behind him.
A proud little man stands with his blue ribbon, his hair a mess; second grade spelling champion. I wonder if the words 'betrayal,' 'bitter,' 'jettison,' or 'jilt' were in his study list.
He looks so much like his mother when he smiles, and my heart sinks when memories rise to the surface in teardrops. Prismatic vision blurs my eyes into the past when I see the three of them so happy in the now.
What did she name him?
Does she ever hear me in her memory?
I can almost imagine that his eyes look a little like mine. Maybe he laughs like I used to.
I nick a -knack and exit through the same window I entered, since this door closed so long ago.
(whatever margaret atwood said)
we are all our own voyeurs
little women sitting in our own heads
next to a man who holds us captive
and shoves us in front of the mirror
look at your face, he says,
your chapped lips, acne, asymmetrical nose
everything you hate most
on display for your number one stalker
smash the glass, try to escape, look back
and watch your reflection shatter
Roulette
I watched him through the glass. I could see how unhappy he was. How utterly depressed he was. I could see his hopelessness. I know that look, I thought. How it felt when your body seems to be doing things at the direction of some deeper, more primitive desperation.
I could see how he ignored the higher executive lobes of his mind. I watched as he fingered the revolver. I watched him open the gun and put in a single bullet. To my horror, I saw him snap it back shut and give the canister a spin.
I watched him. I looked right at him through the glass. I often watched him this way. But he was no more aware of me as he was of his rational self who screamed for him not to do this. His volition, however, was deaf and blind to those screams or to whom might be watching. It was time to step in. It was time to act.
I watched as I saw him look right back at me. He smiled. He didn't care that I was there, trying to stop him. He didn't care who I was. I reached out but could not touch him.
We were eye-to-eye when he lifted the gun to his temple, smiling at me as he did. Was he smiling to himself? It was like he was.
Yes, he was.
I watched helplessly as he squeezed the trigger. We both laughed when all we heard was an empty, harmless click--me in exasperation, him in irony. (Were those the same?)
I watched as he put the gun back down again, slowly. He would live to play again another day.
Bullets are destroyers. Destroyers of futures. Destroyers of lives. Destroyers of trust and love and ambitions. One shouldn't be careless with bullets. Had the gun fired, had the aim been askew, it could have passed through his head with enough force to shatter the mirror I had been looking into.
That would have meant years of bad luck.
Romantic 3rds
Pre-Date Jitters
Aiden had everything planned. He had walked the spot, smoothing the grass and pulling up sticktights. He had tossed a few twigs past the trunk of the 60ft willow, its silvery leaves shivering against the breeze. Leaning his napsack against the gnarled trunk, he'd emerged from the swaying canopy. He walked to the trail head and looked back; he paced back and forth, squinting to see his napsack behind the cascading drip line.
The day before, he had shopped for all the little do-dads and nibbles at the local sundry, Mary & Joseph's. He walked each aisle with a confident gait, even though his shoulders hunched forward a bit. He picked a jar of olives, some table wafers, a pre-sliced summer sausage, some elegent cheeses, cheap cloth napkins, and a basket meant for apple picking.
Aiden turned his back to the storefront panes and bent over to get a good look at something. He put several of these items in his buggy and continued down the aisle. He glanced at the green and black and ambered clear bottles. He looked unsure if he should pick white or red, or maybe something pink and bubbly. His hand hovered over a cold duck for a moment; then, he made a fist and walked to the next aisle.
It was cute. And it was the right decision. Males can be such frail, hesitant creatures when they are prepping for a mating ritual. Their execution isn't always so... gentle. This was going to be a romantic picnic to rival all other 3rds in the history of dating, so much so that I found myself wanting to make an exception. Perhaps I could wait until after for once, I thought. Males can be surprising. Perhaps I was wrong about this one.
Date Night
Aiden walked slowly up the hill, reaching behind him. A small hand reached toward his, and the hands met. He gently tugged to help his companion (who we can call Jane) over a rocky outcrop, and her giggles echoed against the boulder behind the willow tree, only to fall silent just at the trail head. Very private. Aiden smiled when Jane gasped at the scene he had prepared.
The silver willow now glowed with an internal golden warmth. Candles sparkled, and a cool breeze sent slivers of light and merriment into the evening sky. Fireflies responded with their own illuminants. The couple sat on the blanket, and Aiden presented his picnic basket. Jane covered her smile upon viewing the contents.
"What? I tried." Aiden smiled so brilliantly that his companion couldn't help but touch his cheek. They embraced, and Aiden gingerly kissed her exposed neck. Jane discretely slid her skirt up, revealing the thickness of one upper leg. An invitation.
Aiden flashed a hesitant grin, eyes glimmering in the candle light. Jane nodded, and Aiden quickly kissed his way to her offering. He looked in my direction as if prompting me to join him. And though I knew he couldn't see me or sense me there, I found myself accepting his invitation.
He started slowly, nibbling and sucking along the adductor tendon just below her pelvis. Her head tilted back, and she held herself firm against him by balancing on veed arms--a triangle of desire and trepidation. I mirrored his movements, my fingertips and nails in place of his lips and teeth.
Aiden's body trembled; his effort to withstand the desire heightened my connection to him. He was almost speaking to me. I could almost feel his teeth scraping my thigh. My breathing quickened, and Jane's moans vocalized for us both. This was the moment. I would have to finish before she did if I were to save her.
I lifted my earbuds from my pouch and pressed each one deeply and firmly into either ear. I hit play. Dragging my nails across the tenderest patch of flesh on my inner thigh, three small trickles of blood slowly dripped onto the cool earth as I climaxed.
Aiden's head snapped in my direction, and a thin hiss escaped his lips. Jane, enthralled and waiting, sat in the same pose panting, thigh unscathed.
He was next to me in a second, the swirling gold of candlelight and leaves swishing behind him. He stared at me with fierce eyes as he crouched, slowly sniffing at my life's heat, leaking from my thigh like a savory sauce dripping from a perfectly cooked brisket.
As he leaned in, his mouth moved rhythmically. I was grateful for choosing quality earbuds, but it was still difficult to resist because I could read his lips.
Realms of bliss, realms of light
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to the endless night
End of the night, end of the night
End of the night, end of the night
I tilted my head back and placed my hand on the cold hard railroad spike beside my pouch. Aiden cautiously licked at one trickle of blood, his fiery tongue rasping against the ravaged epidermis. I wrapped my other leg around his upper torso, pressing his face into the blood. His eyes widened. I could almost hear the internal struggle: this wasn't planned; I must stop; she isn't who I picked; she wants this more than I do; nobody wants this more than I do.
Aiden's eyes rolled back and his mouth slowly opened, forming a great wide O into which he pressed my bloody inner thigh. Locked. I ran my hand sensually up and down his spine, matching the rhythm of his mouth and tongue. I found that tickly sweet spot, and then. Squelch. Was it pain I saw in those upturned eyes? Rage? Fear? Ecstasy? Perhaps all at once.
Thankfully, Jane would only remember a romantic picnic and that she decided not to see Aiden again, thanks to his thrall. After escorting her to her car, I came back to Aiden. He was gorgeous, even in true death. I removed his head and bisected his body. Such lovely 3rds. It was the most romantic night of my life.
Debrief
"Are you sure you want to sign this statement?" My supervisor had become increasingly squeamish over my past few missions. "Perhaps you could leave field work for a while and go back to the archives...?"
After a prolonged silence, he continued, "We can't have our agents appearing more...er...involved than the 'serial killers' they bring down."
"Of course. That's sensible." Under the desk, I rubbed the bruise on my thigh and thought of Aiden.
It wasn't the worst idea; I could find so many more monsters to slay in the archives. Perhaps my days of solo missions were over, but I had removed the head of the most vile vampire in Ireland, and that afforded me some leeway, I hoped.