Page 9 of Drawn to Death
No, I’d remember that, surely.
But then, did I wash my mug last night? If I can’t remember that… maybe I am stalking myself by forgetting what I’m doing. This paranoia that I’m being watched is not a feeling I particularly like.
I lie there, breathing in and out, waiting for something. No footsteps, no shifting shadows in the doorway. Alone, but not really.
Standing up, I move on autopilot. Grab my slippers, glasses and dressing gown. The sleeve catches on my dry fingertips, rough from my frantic drawings. I flex my hands, watching the skin pull tight, and for a second I wonder if someone else is watching too.
The apartment is quiet as always. Nothing looks out of place. The mugs are still stacked crooked by the sink because, no; I didn’t wash up. My sketchbooks sit in their pile on the coffee table. My money is still screwed up in the tin… and yet.
I move through the rooms slowly, picking out the tiny wrong things. The chair at my drawing table is off by maybe two degrees. The curtain is folded differently. And when I reach for the trash can to toss a tissue, I notice one of my old sketches has been unfolded and then refolded; the creases aren’t how I crumple my failures.
“I know you were here,” I tell the empty room, feeling crazy even as the words leave my mouth.
I pad to the kitchen, fill the kettle, and set it to boil. If someone came into my home, went through my sketches, took the one that shows… what? The future? Some crime, past or not yet done? Then they know everything already. No point in hiding.
The kettle rattles and hisses. I grab my favorite mug, the blue one with the chip at the rim, and drop in a tea bag. My hands aren’t shaking. I move slowly and deliberately. If anyone is watching, let them see I am not scared.
“If you’re watching,” I mutter, not loud, just enough for my voice to make a sound. “You might as well know I drink my tea with honey.”
I stir the tea. The spoon taps the side of the mug, steady and even. The sound fills the quiet, like a clock ticking in thisnew world where I am never alone. I carry my mug to the window. Stand there, looking out at the morning. Then, quick, no hesitation, I reach up and yank the blinds open all the way. Light crashes in, filling every inch of the room.
Let them look. Let them see everything.
I drink my tea. Warmth creeps through my chest. My face blinks back at me from the window: pale, steady. The apartment stretches behind me, wide open now, nothing hidden. I should feel exposed. Instead, I straighten up.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, even though no one is there to hear. “In case you wanted to know.”
In the bathroom, I undress. Slow, careful. I fold my clothes and stack them on the counter. I turn the water on, as hot as it will go, and let the steam fill up the room until the mirror fogs over. When I step under the spray, I picture eyes following me. Noting every scar and blemish. Like the large scar on my shoulder blade from when I fell down the stairs as a kid. I should want to hide. Instead, I stretch out, letting the water run over every inch.
When did fear get so tiring? When did hiding stop making sense?
I step out of the shower, skin prickling and warm, the thin old towel barely enough to wrap around me. The mirror is a clouded oval, so I wipe it with my palm until I can see myself peering through. Same face. Same shadows under my eyes. Still the person who seems to draw death closer, like it’s a stray cat I keep feeding.
“What do you see when you look at me?” I ask, but it isn’t really a question to myself. Not anymore.
I leave the bathroom door open as I brush my teeth. Run the comb through my hair slowly and carefully, the bristles dragging water down my neck. I press moisturizer into my cheeks, my forehead, rubbing it in circles. Everything I do feels like it hasweight now, like someone is watching and I want them to see I am doing it right. Not anxious. Just… deliberate. If there are eyes on me, then every ordinary thing becomes a message: I’m here. I know you’re there. I’m not hiding. I'm not as hopeless as I seem.
In my room, I pick out clothes with the same focus. Clean underwear. Jeans that don’t have holes in the knees. A sweater that doesn’t look like I wipe my hands on it after drawing. I want whoever is watching to see that I know. I want them to know I am choosing to let them every step of the way.
As I button my jeans, the thought hits me: the person who has been here, or maybe still is, they aren’t just looking. They are reaching out. They see my sketches. They understand the nightmares. They look at my art and find something of themselves in it.
And instead of being scared, I feel my mouth tilt up, just a little, in a lopsided grin.
And they respond by taking a piece of it with them.
This isn’t just an invasion. It is… communication.
Aliens sending me messages in the form of bodies. A killer alien communicating telepathically with me. Maybe they don’t even know they are doing it. Hiding upstairs and accidentally sending empathic waves while we sleep. For three whole seconds, I believe that. Enough to make me think I should check out the floor above, where I never go.
Then I remember it involves going out for something other than coffee. Yeah, I’m not that crazy.
Not yet, anyway.
No. It’s not an alien. It’s a man. Not a man,theman. The man I drew without prompting on the strange paper that put itself on my notebook after buying itself from a shop I don’t use.
I give up debating my paranoia and sit at my drawing table, running my fingers over the face I drew. My stalker is real, and slightly smudged under my fingers.
Now he is waiting to see what I’ll do next.
