The Stalker

 I have been watching her for some time. Her days are uneventful, from work to home and back again, with very little in between. On occasion she will meet with a friend. That is what she has planned today at the local cafe – The Black Boundary. A dainty little cafe on the corner of the main street. It is one of her favourite places. She comes here to ... chill out, to be alone with a glass of Johnny and a plate of food. The imagined stresses of her uneventful life being washed away with a little liquor. An uneventful life that I plan to change.

I sit across from her table. She sits alone at hers, waiting for that someone to come. She is nervous, fidgeting in her seat. A waiter moves around the cafe, gliding by my table; I am invisible to him. He strides over to hers for a third time, but she keeps turning him away. I suspect she tells him that she will order food when her ‘friend’ arrives, though she orders a glass of Johnny Walker on the rocks. She shoos the waiter away as soon as the glass meets the table. She strangles it, rising it to her lips and tips it back, scowling as the alcohol burns her throat. Inelegant, for a lady. She dumps the empty glass on the table, the rocks ringing against the sides, and fishes for something from her bag. She pulls out her phone. She toys with it, checking it for messages that are probably not there. She drops it back into her bag. She calls the waiter back over. He pours her another glass of Johnny. She asks for a double. Taking a swig - this time a long, guzzling drink - she pulls the glass away and breathes in deep. The need for air more important than the desire for drink. Breathe deep, sweetheart. 

The bell rings as the door opens. She looks in its direction, annoyed that it does not present who she expects. She fidgets again in her seat and goes for the glass, dragging it toward her. I shift closer to her in my seat. She looks up, right in my direction and looks straight through me. I smile, and get a scowl in return. She rises from her seat, holding her belly. A little too much Johnny. She grabs her purse and hurries toward the toilets. Perhaps it’s another ‘problem’ she is experiencing. Several minutes later, she comes back, a worried look on her face. She moves rigidly back to her table and slumps in the booth. The vinyl seat squeaks as the air is forced out by her weight. She is slight, but the soft cushion of the chair is no match for her as she sits. 

I watch her intently, hoping she feels my gaze. I have watched her like this for months, but today I get to introduce myself. I rise a little in my seat, shifting in her direction. I have a booth too. She looks up at me again. Frowning, she reaches blindly into her bag. The phone comes out again; this time it is being rubbed. It seems her anticipation is rising. She places the phone on the table, watching it as if it will come to life. She stares for a minute or two, then plays with it, pushing it back and forth. The phone rings loudly, making her jump a little. I inch closer. She moves her hand to her heart to still it, but she lacks the know-how, unlike me. The phone rings a few more times before she snaps it open and answers it. A few words exchanged and she snaps it shut. Odd. No smiles. She fidgets some more, her nervousness increasing. Anticipation is no longer creeping, but caresses her dearly. I rest back in my booth, content to watch. For now.

The bell rings, and she looks up. A brief glimmer of happiness as her eyes pinch into a smile. So brief. She stands and greets the newcomer, holding him close in a long embrace. Her deep breath tells me this is not an easy meeting. An uneventful life about to take a turn. Just as I expected.

They start with pleasantries. He tells her how his day was and that the kids are all doing well. He complains about family members who stress him out. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She is biting her lip and I see that her eyes have glazed over. Her sadness is apparent, but the man keeps talking. He is loud enough for everyone to hear. Happy to tell the world of his woes. She pretends to listen. Her pain becomes overwhelming. I frown. Why doesn’t he quieten down? That would help her right now. It would help me. She reaches her hand across the table and taps his twice before taking it into her own. This seems to silence him. She looks at him and her sadness spills from her eyes. He shakes his head and asks her what is wrong. She manages to compose herself long enough to tell him. I am drawn to her. 

I look at the man across the table from me. He sits sullen. Her sadness becoming his as it spills from his eyes too. He rises from his seat and comes toward me, drawing me into a hug. I’ve looked at people this way before. Through her eyes. The pain they show is immeasureable; especially when she told her mother. Most of them, I can handle; but that one, that was tough. I almost skipped out on her, leaving her with her life. Uneventful as it was. But ... fate is fate. And I am its father.

This man, her older brother, asks her if she wants his help. She tells him that it is too late for that, she just needs his love. He tells her she has always had it and he hugs her again. His warm lips plant a kiss on her cheek and he wipes away her tears before leaving her alone. She wanted him to go.

We sit alone for a few more minutes. She orders another double Johnny and pays the bill. It is the most she has spent. But she won’t need the money after today. She empties her purse, leaving a sizeable tip. I guess the waiter will be happy. Putting her phone back into her bag, she slings it over her shoulder and we walk out of the cafe. She stops as she hears the door shut behind her. Turning, she takes her last look at her thinking space, then we make for her car.

She digs her keys out of her bag and unlocks the door. The tears are flowing freely now. Her brother was the last one to tell. No-one else left to upset, she feels alone and understands that is how it needs to be. Her hardest was her first. The man who she lived with. The man she loved. She alienated herself from him and pushed him away. The last time she saw him, he was fuming. Angry at what she had done. He walked away not knowing a thing. She hadn’t wanted to tell him. With everyone knowing, she also feels free. Before getting in the car, she wipes away her tears and shouts out loud. No words, just whooping. It feels very good. Even I felt free. Opening the car door, she slides into the seat and drives the key into its hole. Twisting hard, the car revs to life. She chuckles at the thought. The world is an ironic place. 

The drive home is in silence. Usually the radio would be cranked up and she would be singing along. Today, silence is her friend. She stops once at the side of the road, pain racking her body. She breathes deep, gets out and throws up. Staring down at the mess, there is more blood than bile. I nod, satisfied that this is the end. Back in the car, she cranks the engine again and gets us home. Leaving the key in the car, she parks it on the street. Choosing to leave it for someone who stumbles across it, rather than giving it to someone who won’t appreciate her sentiment. Pushing herself, she rolls out of the car. Rising, she walks weakly to the front door of her block of flats. She smiles at the bright blue door. She always liked it. Determined to get up the stairs, she kicks off her shoes and staggers a step at a time. By the third flight of stairs, she is crawling. She has deposited a few times on the way. The cleaner will get it. At her door, she pulls herself to standing position and jams her key in the lock. Just for a second, anger grips her. How is it fair that she should suffer like this? Thoughts race through her mind and she punches the door. The energy behind it cracks a knuckle and she screams in pain. Squeezing her eyes shut, she forces more tears out. They haven’t stopped since the cafe. 

Opening the door, she drops her bag carelessly on the couch as she staggers through to her room. Falling onto her bed, she rolls onto her back. I can see the ceiling, but I want to see her.  I tear myself away from her body and straddle her. She doesn’t even notice. Too lost in her self-pity. Too consumed by the pain. I look her up and down, running my eyes over her entire body. She is a pretty thing and I have known this body better than even she does. I knew when it started. I knew when it crept through her, when my tendrils wrapped around her organs, eating from the inside out. I knew as she estranged herself from her lover, when she told her mother, her friends and her brother. I introduced myself to her in the slyest, most cunning way ever. I used her own body against her. This didn’t happen by chance. I planned it, plotted it, as I do with every single one. She is not my first, nor will she be my last. Surely you have heard of me. Let me introduce myself: Hello world, I am Cancer.