by Shade, S. M.
“Drummer. I can’t wait for you to meet him. And…” She pauses for effect, and I can’t help but smile at her dramatic ways. “He has a friend who’s gorgeous too. He plays guitar, sings, and he’s single.”
That didn’t take long. “So, you’re going for a threesome?”
“No, bitch! I can hook you up!”
“Don’t start. You know I’m not interested.”
“You don’t have to marry him for cripes sake. Just get some. If his dick is anywhere near as impressive as his friend’s, you’ll be writing me thank you notes.”
“I don’t need you to find me impressive dick. You also realize you live over four hours away?”
“Fine,” she sighs. “Someday you’re going to want a cock that doesn’t take batteries again.”
Not likely. They always come attached to a lot of stuff I don’t want to deal with. Thea spends a few minutes gushing over the new guy in her life before we go on to chat about a few other things while I eat.
Thea’s the only person I really consider a friend. We were both placed in the same group home and aged out of the system at the same time. We relied on each other for a while until we both found our way and could support ourselves. We’re very different in some ways. Her endless hope and optimism is a sharp contrast to my darker way of thinking.
It’s not in my nature to trust, but she knows more about me than anyone else. My past, who I am, and what it’s done to me. She knows I have some issues, and I admit to her that I’ve had some new anxiety triggers as the subject turns to how I’m doing.
“I’m struggling a little,” I tell her, instead of the truth.
That I’m choking down life one day at a time.
And I’m almost full.
With a promise to call each other soon, we hang up before I begin my drive back. The rain fades to a sprinkle, and my mood starts to match the gray, drab sky. The urge to go home and crawl into bed is strong, but I don’t want to disappoint the Mystery Mamas, the group of elderly ladies who are waiting for me to read the next few chapters of the book of the month.
Caffeine’s a good way to trick my brain into a facsimile of happiness for a bit. A stop along the way for an iced coffee perks me up enough to plaster on a smile for them as I enter the senior center. When I first started doing this, I did enjoy it. As has happened with many other activities I used to like, that feeling has slipped away more with each visit. Today it feels like something to get through so I can go home.
Fortunately, the ladies enjoy it. I’m able to smile and laugh with them while they debate who the killer is and what his motive might be. The group of ten women range in age from sixty-seven to ninety but age hasn’t dulled their sharp wits. I’m aware of who the killer is since I’ve read it before, and most of them have it figured out.
It’s late when I leave to head home. Dim streetlights cast a jaundiced glow over the parking lot of the senior center, and dark clouds still clog the sky. Maybe it’s the eerie backdrop or the sudden silence after so many voices indoors, but as soon as my feet touch the pavement, I feel it again.
He’s near.
Freezing in place, I look around, slowly scanning my surroundings. A few parked cars sit empty, the edge of a garbage bag in a nearby can flaps in the damp wind, breaking the silence. Nothing moves.
I’m tired and annoyed. All I want to do is get home, unload my car, and go to bed. “Whoever you are, come out or leave me alone,” I call, stalking over to open my car door. “I know you’re there.”
In books or on TV, this would be the point when the menacing figure might step into the light and make the protagonist regret their request. In real life, still nothing. With a sigh, I get in my car and start across the lot. It isn’t until I glance in the rear view mirror after pulling into the road that I see him.
Sort of.
A tall, wide outline of a man steps from behind one of the trees that separates the edge of the parking lot from the street. A hand raises like he’s going to wave at me, but instead it moves as if he’s pushing hair out of his face.
A spike of adrenaline shoots through me. My eyes dart to the road ahead of me, making sure I don’t crash before another glance at the mirror shows an empty road. It’s only been a second, but he’s gone. It doesn’t matter. I saw him. He was there.
Vigilance rules my drive home, but no other cars follow me onto my road. The only lights visible when I park in my driveway and get out, are the ones I left on to see my way inside. I’m alone. It takes me a few minutes to unload my car. My purchases are left in my kitchen. They can be put away tomorrow when I have the energy.
It’s not like I have anything to do tomorrow. Or the next day. Or many days after. No real responsibilities or places to be. Only recently it’s occurred to me that I could be one of those people you see on the news who dies and isn’t found for weeks. The thought makes me wander out to a place I’ve been trying to avoid.
The new shed is bright and shiny, reflecting the moonlight that filters through the clouds. It’s filled with the usual things you’d find in a shed. Gardening and landscaping equipment, tools, odds and ends that don’t really have a place to belong. It’s the far corner which draws my attention.
A large generator sits against the wall. Alongside it waits a gas can filled with fuel. Even capped, the faint smell reaches me. Everyone living in this area keeps a generator and gasoline. Power outages from storms are a usual occurrence. What everyone doesn’t do is fantasize about filling the generator, turning it on, and letting the carbon monoxide carry them away.
It occurred to me how easy it would be to go that way, and ever since, the thought sort of hangs around. I find myself wandering in here to look at it, consider it as an option. Maybe it should alarm me. It doesn’t. I’m confused by the urge sometimes because I’m not outright miserable. I’m not suffering through anything. I’m well off with little to nothing to actually worry about.
Which is the issue, I imagine. There isn’t any meaning to life. I’ve made it through a lot to get to this point and for what?
I don’t know.
The memory of the man stepping out from behind the tree flashes in my head, and a spark of excitement comes with it. Who is he? Why’s he following me? It’s a mystery. Something I have to know, and as good a reason as any to stick around, I suppose.
Morbid curiosity.
* * *
It’s late and my lifelong nemesis insomnia has a grip on me again. Which is why I’m lying in bed, shopping online for sex toys at three in the morning. It’s way past time to get something new. While giving up on dating and relationships has been remarkably easy, and I’m happy with that choice, my sex drive isn’t. It’s been particularly strong lately. The little vibrating bullet I have isn’t doing the trick. Time to splurge a bit.
I adjust the pillow behind my head, get comfortable, and start adding things to my cart. Wow, they have vibrators that actually thrust? One in particular looks appealing since it has the thrusting power and attaches via suction cup to whatever surface you like. It’s kind of big, but the next smaller one would hardly be worth the trouble. Guess I’ll see if I can take it.
Another thing that catches my eye doesn’t look like a sex toy at all. It’s a small, red rose with a hole in the top. The description explains that it’s a suction device which also vibrates. All the reviews rave over it, and my eyes widen at the accompanying video that shows a woman holding up her hand with the device latched onto her palm, pulsing away. Yes, please.
Maybe some really good orgasms can chase away the apathy and loneliness that have been creeping in. When I go to check out, the company throws in a free gift, a regular dildo. Okay, then.
Birds sing outside my window when I finally put my phone down to try to sleep. My way of putting myself to sleep has always been to tell stories to myself. Let some scenario play out in my head like a movie. They often end up as scenes in my books. People would think it was crazy, I’m sure, to know some of the things that go throu
gh my mind. Things that would keep them awake for days.
Tonight, it’s no surprise the image in my head is a tall, shadowy figure, following me home. Watching and planning…what? Not a murder or assault. That’s too common. Something different. Sleep pulls me down at last while I’m contemplating what a man such as that might want with me.
It’s after noon when I wake but I’m in no hurry to get out of bed. Countless people would no doubt kill for the luxury I enjoy of not being bound to any sort of schedule. No alarm to set, no job to go to, no one who even knows I’m awake. It’s freedom to sleep when I want, eat when and what I want, never leave the couch if that’s how I choose to spend the day. It was amazing in the beginning, the first few weeks I lived here, but it grows monotonous much faster than expected.
The peace is worth it, though. Until recently, I felt content. Unbothered by the noise I left behind, no longer beholden to others’ problems and complaints. My only problems are my own. That’s something I can handle.
The rumble of my stomach gets me out of bed. With the mood I’ve been in lately, I know I won’t get any writing done. The spark just isn’t there. I’ve lost it somewhere, and the fear that I may never get it back is starting to creep in. Today will be spent like most of mine have been recently. Walking and exploring.
After a quick meal, I pack my small drawstring bag with the few things I like to have when I venture out. A notebook, pen, some water, a snack or two, and a little cash. My earbuds are linked to my phone and tucked into my pocket. Phone’s at full charge. I’m ready to go.
Walking the day. That’s what I call it. Although my wanders around town and out into the surrounding county sometimes last into the night, depending how far I go. Sometimes, I’m just too far from home when I realize the sun’s going down. It’s easy to lose track of time when I’m in my head, and walking seems to put me there.
Coming back after dark probably isn’t the smartest idea with some guy following me—though I don’t feel him today—but I’m finding it harder and harder to care.
Taking a right turn out of my driveway, I head down the road that leads away from town. The soft breeze is warm, and the sounds around me are soothing. Wind rustles through the forest, birds sing to each other, somewhere a woodpecker raps away at a tree. My feet pause to let a tiny lizard run across my path, the sun illuminating the blue streaks on its back.
Better. This is definitely better than being home, trying to force words from my brain onto a screen. Maybe the time will come when the words flow again but it isn’t today.
Two hours on the road leads me to a pasture that hasn’t been utilized in a long time. It’s kept mowed, and still bears a faint scent of dung. I cut across the expanse of green to reach the railroad tracks which lead into town in one direction, and to who-knows-where in the other. I’ve gone the other way once, but stopped when I came to a tunnel through the hills. Pitch dark inside, with warning signs to stay out plastered over the end—though it sits in what seems like the middle of nowhere—even I had enough self-preservation to turn back.
This time, I head toward town, walking on the wooden ties and enjoying the crunch of the rocks underfoot between them. The sun is beaming down now. The heat of the afternoon raises sweat on my skin. After another thirty minutes or so, the tree line on one side of the tracks creeps closer, and I’m able to sit in the shade to drink some water. The rail is a warm stripe on my ass through my jeans.
It’s peaceful out here, so quiet. It’s like I’m the only person left in the world and the feeling isn’t a bad one. It’s such a different kind of being alone than the days and nights spent at home. An essential solitude I’ve somehow forgotten existed. It soothes that unfulfillable need to be alone, but not by myself.
A crash in the woods behind me makes me look back, but it’s followed by the familiar bark of a deer. No worries. No boogeyman charges out of the woods. With the sun dappling me, I start walking again. I’ve been so in my head. The day’s getting away from me. How long was I sitting there, just drifting?
It’s evening when I step off the tracks onto a road that crosses Main Street. I’m starving, and I duck into the sub sandwich shop to grab some food before continuing down the street to a small park. A few empty picnic tables are nestled between two trees. It isn’t the first meal I’ve eaten here.
Across the street from the park is a three story brick building that must be nearly as old as the town. It’s filled with apartments. Just the sight of the saggy blinds in many of the windows, and the scraggly balconies that look ready to collapse tell the story of the conditions on the inside. My food consumed, I sip my drink, watching as a kid who looks no more than a year old sits on the stone steps. Dressed in only a diaper, he hands the boy next to him—clearly a brother a few years older—his baby bottle. The brother pours half his soft drink into the bottle, screws the nipple on, and hands it back.
They grin at each other, oblivious to their situation and how hard things are likely to get. I’ve been there. In more of those seedy apartments and government subsidized houses than I can count. Foster care rarely leads you to a life of luxury. I’m lucky.
I hope those two brothers will be too.
A woman walks out onto the balcony, a long ratty robe wrapped around her skinny body. Cigarette smoke curls up over her head while she shouts down at them to come in for dinner. For a couple of minutes after the boys disappear inside, she stays on the balcony, blowing smoke into the air and staring at the sky in the failing light. What lives in her head in that moment?
Is it hope? Despair? Resignation?
Finally, she retreats through the doorway, and I pull out my notebook. I need to write. Get down some descriptions and the feelings that watching the family triggered in me. It probably seems creepy to others, but it’s always been the foundation of my writing process. Watching others. How they interact. How they laugh and fight, cry and love. Maybe that’s why I’m not as afraid as I should be now that I’m on the other side of the table, being watched by someone.
The words resist me like they have for months now. It’s full dark when I give up and sling my bag over my back. The cool air sends chills over my slightly sunburned skin as I start my walk home. I’m only about thirty minutes from my house. The moon hides, leaving me in darkness only occasionally broken by a streetlight. When I turn onto the road to my house, even those have faded behind me. The forest presses in on either side of the road, swallowed by the night.
“Darcy.”
My entire body jerks at the sound of my name spoken in a deep voice.
I pull the lone earbud I’m wearing out of my ear and freeze in place. “Who’s there?” My voice is demanding, but a rattle of nerves infiltrate it. The warm feeling on the back of my neck returns, the same as it always does when he watches me.
“If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work! So just come out here.”
Nothing. Only the sound of the wind through the leaves. My hands tremble, and the realization that I’m afraid pisses me off. I moved away from everyone. I don’t bother anyone. This asshole isn’t going to break my peace.
“Fucking coward!” I call, and whip around to start walking again. He’s there, I know he is. My skin prickles with the expectation of being grabbed from behind. It grows the longer I don’t look back. My body buzzes with conflicting emotions. I’m afraid and excited. Alive.
This is the most alive I’ve felt in years.
There’s no sound of footsteps behind me, and I resist looking back until I reach the middle of my driveway. Prepared to come face to face with him, I spin around to find an empty street. Is he gone? Hiding nearby? Was no one ever there at all? We all sometimes mistakenly think we hear our name called, don’t we?
“No,” I whisper. “I heard you.”
Farther away than the last time, and barely audible over the rush of blood in my ears, a low chuckle drifts on the wind.
Chapter Three
PAST
It’s hot in here and my ski
n is itchy. It’s from those tiny bugs that live in the beds. No matter how tightly I wrap the sheet around me, they still find places to bite. It’s cooler on the floor and maybe Daryl won’t find me here. Nobody likes me, but Daryl hates me, and he’ll be back soon from visiting his parents. He’s always mean then.
From my spot on the floor, I can see the four bunk beds, scattered with clothes, snack wrappers, and toys. Even the group home was better than this place. I want to go back there. Nobody cares what I want.
The other kids are all outside and it’d be cooler out there, but in here I can be alone. Alone means safe.
Safety never lasts long.
The door bangs open. “You’re full of it! Your parents are crackheads. They ain’t take you to no waterpark, you liar,” Jimmy laughs, and Daryl tackles him. They tumble into the room. The boys aren’t really supposed to be in the girls’ room but no one pays any attention.
The other kids come in to see them wrestle. “At least I got parents,” Daryl says, pinning Jimmy to the floor. They’re both twelve and in sixth grade, but Daryl is fatter. He can hold Jimmy down. “Where’s your dad?”
“Probably out earning a few cents so he can fuck your mom.”
His words don’t make sense to me, but the other kids laugh. Both boys start laughing too. Daryl lets Jimmy up, then pulls something out of his back pocket. “Look what I’ve got. My dad gave it to me.”
There’s a clicking sound and he holds up a knife. As I watch, the blade disappears, then pops back out when he pushes a button. Sunlight makes it glittery. My breath speeds up as I stare at it. So beautiful and dangerous.
“Cool, is it sharp?” Jimmy asks.
Some noise must’ve come from me because Daryl looks down to see me tucked as close to the wall as I can get. The smile that crawls across his face makes me scoot in the opposite direction. “Let’s find out.”
Before I can scramble to my feet, his hand is squeezing my arm. He jerks me up and drags me over to one of the beds.