Evidence for Case 143, Plaintiff, v. Defendant, 214 TJE, 126 U.S. (20XX)
To my beloved,
No matter how alone you feel, I will always be with you.
There is no world in which I part from your side; you tied together our red strings of fate with your untainted hands on that day. You brought me back when I had nothing, piecing me together with your silent comfort and smiles of adoration.
I ate your favorite today, French toast with maple syrup and fresh raspberry jam, just to feel closer to you. I know you’ve been busy these past months, but I hope you’re doing well. You’ve pained yourself to climb the ranks to your position and I’m so proud of where you are now, but please don’t overwork yourself. I need you.
You’re not one to seek help when in danger, so I went to your workplace and dropped off a bottle of Tylenol and a note for you at your desk. I even made you coffee, just the way you like it, with two sugars and a dash of hazelnut creamer. I reorganized your desk too, just to your liking.
Don’t worry, don’t worry, I know your system of organization, I’ve been to your apartment. I know how you like things slightly messy because excessive cleanliness reminds you of an insane asylum. I always chuckled at it, watching you grumble to yourself as you once again rifle around for your wallet before you hangout with your friends. You’re beautiful when you’re stressed. You’re always so beautiful.
I’m so glad we work at the same place now because I miss you dreadfully and always so much. Even though we have different positions, I checked on you anyway to make sure you’d taken your Tylenol and saw my note. As I thought, the current you is so much cuter than the five-year-old you.
Tuesdays are grocery days so I met you outside the company building at 4:30 P.M. sharp. Punctuality isn’t quite my forte but I’m willing to change for you. I’ll do anything for you.
I’ve never needed words to understand you, so we walked side by side in silence. I only smiled as you hurriedly walked towards the cereal aisle. I went to the other side and grabbed the soup cans you like; your supply at home is running low. Our eyes met through the holes of the aisle and I watched your face bloom into red. My dear, you get flustered so easily, and look so pretty when frightened, just how do you expect me to live without you?
I placed the cans and a rose into the basket. A dozen roses wouldn’t even begin to convey my love, so I settled for one, a surprise for later. I know you love surprises. Watching your lips turn to an “O”, those glassy eyes widen, the grocery store seemed a little brighter.
My precious, precious darling. Even inebriated you capture my heart. I haven’t drunk a drop of alcohol since I’ve met you, simply because I don’t need it anymore. When I see you sway back and forth in a drunken daze, your neck exposed as you take another shot, my mind floats into elation. I am wholly devoted to you, every ounce of my love and my life attuned for you. You’re my latest addiction and you’ve already ruined me.
I tucked you into bed that night and changed you into pajamas because I know you hate to wake up with clothes worn outside and day-old make-up. You gazed at me with hazy, wide eyes and a confused mouth and you had me falling from the heavens all over again. If I could, I’d stay the night and I’d stay forever. I need every inch of me to be occupied by your body.
But this is another letter that I will not yet send. Instead, I’ll tuck this into the drawer and into the crevices of my heart. I’ll wait and wait and wait until you and I are bound, either by skin or by law. Whichever you prefer. But you’ve made it clear you aren’t ready for commitment so I’ll wait.
For now, I’ll remain content sitting amidst the shadows of your life, our relationship hidden behind walls.
I can’t wait to see you again.
Delivered May 7, 20**
Date: May 10, 20**
Recording of Patient 284, Great Villa Mental Health Institution
Recording starts.
My grandfather used to say, “God is always watching, so always watch your step.”
And I used to ask, “But Grandpop, how do you know that he’s watching you?”
Everytime I asked him that question, he would stare into my soul, his eyes narrow and lifeless, and he would respond, “You’ll know.”
I used to scoff at his lessons. They were just some religious gibberish that his senile brain had invented. God wasn’t real and he couldn’t affect me in any way. But after what happened these past few months, I believe that my grandfather was partially correct: there is someone out there watching me.
Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe my neurons are twisted and mangled. Maybe I’m stuck in a perpetual nightmare. Whatever the reason is, I can’t escape the notion that I’m being stalked. Every morning, I enter the office at 8:30 A.M. As soon as I go through the front door, a pair of eyes glues itself onto me. Are they around the corner? Inside the stack of boxes in the hallway? Behind the closet door? I can never tell. Sometimes, though, if I hold my breath, I can make out the raspy panting of a man, like the hoarse breathing of a rabid dog, just outside of my view. But it’s only for a moment, and silence usually returns.
I arrive at my office at 8:35 A.M. and there’s a number of oddities. My chair is tilted and the soft leather seat carries the faint indentation of a body much larger than mine. My pencils are all strewn about and some of my drawers are partially open. Was someone rummaging through them?
I pick up the coffee mug from my desk. Usually, one of my assistants brews it right before I come in, so I am always greeted with a steaming, fresh cup of goodness. Today, the coffee is dismal and stale, a stain placed on the lip of the mug as if someone had already savored it. A few splotches of cream form the faint silhouette of a heart on the surface of the coffee. I throw the mug away.
There are—no, there should be—four photos framed on my desk: one of my parents hugging at a restaurant, one of me grinning with my college diploma, one of me gorging on a birthday cake with my friends, and one of me playing in a sandbox as a little girl.
The photos are crooked in their frame, marred by a few rough creases as if they had been hurriedly shoved back into their container. The photo of me as a little girl is missing. I check the security footage. Nothing. No one had come into my office, not a soul.
I shudder and sit down at my desk. Out of the corner of my eye, a ceiling tile shifts. My head shoots to the left, then to the right. Nothing. There’s no more movement, even the air is motionless. I reach into my desk and try to find a bottle of Tylenol to clear my head. Atop the thick plastic bottle, my hand encounters a soft, crinkled piece of paper. It's a Post-It note. I pull it out and stare at it. The words “I can’t wait to see you again.” stares back at me.
4:30 P.M. is when I leave my office. I head down to the grocery store a few blocks away to get some ingredients for dinner. The trip should be simple. It’s a path I’ve taken every Tuesday for the past few years without trouble. Yet, I can’t help but look over my shoulder at every sound, every click. A man coughs behind me. I spin around. Nothing. Someone hums next to my ear. Again, my head snaps backward. Nothing. Am I going crazy? Am I sick? Am I hallucinating? No, no, no. I’m fine. I’m fine.
I enter the store and grab a basket, my fingers trembling. Peering into the abyssal, white aisles of the grocery store, I feel as if I’m trapped in a maze with an unfathomable creature hunting me. I rush through the infinite rows, hoping to finish my trip as quickly as I can. I rummage through my memory to try to recover what I needed to buy. Fruits? There might be someone next to you. Vegetables? Someone is behind you. Bread? Behind you. I spin around. Nothing. I slap away my paranoia, and it’ll probably leave a red mark on my face. Focus.
I enter the cereal section. They say that a good breakfast is the most important thing to start off a day. Yes. That’s what I need: a better start to my day. I pick my way through the aisle, trying to ignore the stares of the mascots on the front of each box. A pirate. A bird. A leprechaun. All of these figures glared at me from my peripheries. My hairs creep up on my arm. I need to get out of here. I arbitrarily grab a box and shove it in my cart. I look back at the shelf and my heart stops.
A pair of eyes, burning with lust and desire, shimmers from where the box was. The rest of the face is shrouded in darkness. I blink and it’s gone. Where? I sprint to the opposite aisle to find out. Nothing. No one.
I continue my trip, my hands clattering like the wheels on a nearby cart. Cool sweat streams down my back. My breathing is ragged. I struggle to collect my thoughts. What’s next? Bread? Vegetables? Escape? I no longer feel like putting in effort to make dinner. My anxiety has murdered my motivation. I would have to settle for some canned soup.
I pick up a few soup cans, expecting to see the eyes again. Nothing. I pick up more cans. Nothing. Maybe the eyes are gone. Maybe I just need more sleep. My vision clears and I allow my lungs to take in a few deep breaths. Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Inhale. Inhale.
I stop.
Someone else was breathing along with me.
Is it behind me? My brain orders me to investigate. My neck refuses to comply. My body is in mutiny. My heart roars at me to not turn around. Go home. Yet, I listen to my brain. My heels turn and I come face to face with…nothing.
I return to picking out my dinner. Cream of mushroom? Minestrone? Chicken soup? Eyes. I scream and drop the cans, sending them clattering on the floor. The eyes vanish as abruptly as they had appeared. An employee sprints to me and questions about the issue. I point at where the eyes were. They are long gone.
In the checkout lane I throw all my items onto the conveyor belt. I need to get out of here, away from the eyes, away from everything. I want to go home and bury my head under a pillow, to find some respite in my linen sheets. Cans, greens, an apple, some cereal, and a loaf of bread, that’s all that I should have bought. But a lone rose had managed to sneak its way into my basket. On the rose is a note that reads, “I can’t wait to see you again!” I throw it away.
It’s 7:00 P.M. My home doesn’t feel safe anymore. It’s like the eyes are outside my window, watching me sleep, watching me change. They have become part of my walls, part of my windows. I decide to drown out my panic in a few pints of ale. The bartender pours me a glass filled with the golden-colored liquid. He barely has time to turn around before I order another one. And another.
7:30 P.M. I’ve lost count of the glasses. They pile up in front of me like a wall, shielding me from any watchers in the distance. Another glass would make me feel safer.
7:45 P.M. My head is still clear. I can drink more. Another.
7:55 P.M. A stranger bumps into me. He apologizes and scurries off. I ignore him and continue drinking.
8:00 P.M. I don’t feel drunk, but something is wrong. My vision stretches like a rubber band. The lights of the bar flash and dance in front of me, like a ballerina performance of LEDs. I try to order more, but my words come out jumbled and chunky. A muscular arm seizes me. His putrid breath infiltrates my nose.
“I’ll take you home now,” he croaks.
Who is he? How does he know where I live? I barely have time to process those thoughts before the dark figure lifts me off my feet. I roll around in his backseat as he races through the twilight roads, humming and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. We stumble through my front door, my limbs flaccid. I can’t move. I can’t shout. I’m completely at his mercy. The figure drags my lifeless body along as if it was a ragdoll.
He throws me onto my bed and my clothes fly off. I can’t breathe. I refuse to open my eyes. I don’t want him to put his hands on me. I think my body froze on its own and is bracing itself for my body to be defiled . But nothing happens. He simply stares, his eyes burning a hole straight into my chest. The eyes linger for another agonizing minute, the fierce orbs shrouded in the shadows. I begin to drift away. The last words that reach my ears is: “I can’t wait to see you again.”
7:30 A.M. I wake up with a jolt. My head feels as if a rusty ten-inch nail had been hammered straight through it. My pajamas are on. The front door is locked. Nothing seems out of place. I go into work and ask my coworkers if they noticed anything peculiar. Nothing.
Maybe I’m going insane. Maybe my brain is melting into sludge. I have no solid proof that this is occurring; I only have some shaky anecdotes and a few drunk memories. But I now understand my grandfather more than ever. God may not be watching me, but someone definitely is.
Recording end.
Komentarze