Watchful Eyes

Her fingers skimmed across the titles, gently, as if her fingertips could pull the stories through their spines. As if the right book would call out to her, pull her in. She might be able to find comfort in the words. Or perhaps she would only drown in the letters. They would surround her, summoning thoughts from inside her as if she was the one to contain the info they so desperately sought.

She twisted around the corner, winding her way through the aisles. She knew exactly where she was going, but she didn’t need them to know. The peering intrusive eyes of the other patrons, judging her choices. All knowing or just ever-present, she couldn’t tell the difference. She didn’t need them to know where she was headed and their eyes couldn’t follow her forever. They would lose interest eventually, when she became boring enough or fresh prey wandered their way.

The heat of the eyes slowly turned away from her, on their way to burn holes into someone else’s life. She was alone, as she feared she would be. The eyes were a burden and a comfort. They could see her, even if they were seeing through her. It was only when the eyes turned away from her that she was able to focus on what was left in front of her.

The titles wove together in front of her eyes. She couldn’t focus on one, trying to read multiples at once only made it harder. She closed her eyes, hoping that her blind fingers would choose the right one. She wobbled around for a moment before landing solidly on a book and the floor.

The sound drew the intensity of the eyes back to her. She flushed with embarrassment, she hadn’t meant to draw the attention back to her. Scrambling to her feet, she snatched the book off the floor and dashed out of their sight. They couldn’t see her anymore. She hoped that they couldn’t see her anymore.

The book felt heavy in her hands. It had been lighter when she had picked it up, she was convinced of it. The eyes cast the weight of their judgements upon it, watering down the pages and ideas. Words mean nothing to those who cannot read them. She clutched the book to her chest in a desperate attempt to hide it. It must have some importance to her, even without seeing the title she could tell that it was the right one.

She placed the book delicately on the counter, shielding the title from prying eyes. There was nothing more interesting to them than the small girl with the dark clothing and brightly colored book. They wanted answers to questions they had never asked, trying to pull them from a place she didn’t know she was hiding.

The shop clerk told her the price but his voice was underwater, muddled under the consuming pressure. She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and fiddled with her fingers. The silver jewelry around them would unscrew if she twisted them any harder. He was waiting. For a response, for payment, for his shift to end.

“What?” her first word to him, of the day actually.

“The book,” he repeated patiently, secretly dead inside and cursing her existence in his precious store, “it’s $12.50.”

She didn’t have enough paper money to pay for the book, so she reluctantly surrendered her card to the boy. He looked at it for perhaps a bit too long, memorizing her name, or the card number. When he finally decided to swipe the card, he had all the information that he wanted. He waited, spinning her card around his fingers until the machine flashed blue. All clear.

“All set then, Bailey Williams.” He callously announced, grandly returning the damn thing back. 

Of course he made a show of it. He had to let the whole store know her name. That wouldn’t make it safely past the eyes, or the ears, the heads in which they fit securely. They would remember her, there was no way they could forget. Haunted by their own memories, they were hopelessly grasping at anyone else they could sink their claws into. Something to distract from the roaring in their skulls. They wouldn’t forget Bailey Williams, with her bumbling awkwardness and reeking of desperation. They could pick it up from miles away.

She mumbled out a quick thank you under her breath. She was polite, but he didn’t deserve to know it. She appreciated him on principle, the same way he appreciated her business, casually and without any intent of caring about the other person.

She stumbled around the counter, nearly knocking over a display of magazines on the checkout table. The clerk came around the side, his shiny name tag nearly blinding her in the process. He scrambled around her, hauling her back on her feet. She wobbled for a moment before regaining her balance. He hurried forwarding, holding both the door and his breath until she was safely out of his hair.

She hoped that the bag would hide her prize. The rest of them did not need to know what was tucked away in the blue plastic bag, which crinkled obnoxiously in sync with her footsteps. It wanted attention, more than she did. It wanted to spill its contents to the ground for every wandering eye to fall upon. Words were meant for sharing it thought. 

In the dark of the night, they would not be able to see the title. She couldn’t see it either. She sat down, perched on the edge of bench, illuminated by the street lights. The safety of the night provided the courage that she needed to retrieve the fluorescent book. Its glossy cover reflected the dim lighting back at her.

She had forgotten about the others, if only for a second. Her own eyes had fallen to the book, finally seeing what she had been so desperate to protect. She studied it, turning the book over and over in her hands.

Overthinking: Turn Off Your Thoughts was scrawled in cursive across the top. She cautiously opened the cover and began to read, her eyes straining in the fading light. Maybe instinct really did know the right choice.