These Thoughts Are Mine Alone

TRIGGER WARNING: This story centers around a character who wants to hurt a child

I get up at 4am. I brush my teeth. I get dressed. I go for a run. I run for at least an hour. Hard. I run as fast as I can, until my heart feels like it’s going to explode from my chest. This is important. This keeps me steady.

After I run, I shower. I shower for a long time, in hot, scalding water. I make myself burn. This is important. This keeps me steady.

On good days, on days when I can feel the calm in my body, I let myself go out into the world for a short amount of time. No longer than a couple hours. After a couple hours, everything gets harder. More difficult. But for those couple hours, I go to the store or the beach or downtown. I shop like other people do. I smile. I say Hello. How are you? People smile at me too and it’s nice. For just a little while, it’s really nice.

On bad days, I stay inside. I lock all the doors and windows. I fight as hard as I can for as long as I can. I bite my lips, my arms, my legs. I bite until I bleed. It is the only way.

When I run, when I pound the pavement, when I speed past the cars and the houses and the few people who are awake at that time, I let my mind wander. It is the only time I’ll allow myself the luxury. My mind will usually go back. It’ll reach back to the time before. The time when I was small. The one time I let myself go. When I run, I can feel how it felt in my hands. The thickness of its fur. The heat of its blood as it ran down my fingers. I can remember, so vividly, the feeling of power, of elation, of absolute release. A feeling I haven’t felt since. I have imagined, I have dreamt, I have fantasized. I have relived each second of that experience and expanded on it. But only when I run. And it’s ok because no one knows. Because no one sees. Because these thoughts are mine. And mine alone.  

Last week, a woman moved in next door. She has a child. A little boy. He likes to throw his basketball against the wall of my house. I grit my teeth and scream into my pillow. I bite my hands until they bleed.

I shut my eyes against the softness of his skin.

I push my thoughts away.

This morning the woman knocked on my door. I could see her through my blinds as she knocked, knocked, knocked. She had lovely hair and a lovely, long neck.

I threw on a sweater so she couldn’t see my scars.

She smiled at me when I opened the door.

I could tell by the look on her face, she liked what she saw.

It is not uncommon for me. But it never lasts long.

“Hello,” she said, “I’m Cindy. I just moved next door.”

“Hello,” I replied and smiled.

She winced and I could immediately feel that my smile was too wide.  

“Nice to meet you,” I said, adjusting my smile.

She raised her eyebrows in question, waiting for me to give my name.

I didn’t.

“I hope my son hasn’t bothered you too much,” she said after a few moments of silence.

“Your son?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. As if I hadn’t noticed. As if I haven’t been watching him since they moved in. Studying him. Imagining what he smelled like.

“He likes to bounce his ball-

“Oh!” I said, as if I was just remembering, “Yes,” I said laughing, “I’ve heard him.”

“Well, I hope he hasn’t bothered you,” she said.

“Not at all,” I replied, lying through my teeth.

He bothered me. He bothered me a great deal.

“I also wanted to invite you over,” she said.

My heart jumped.

“Oh?” I replied.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m having a little get together so I can get to know the neighbors.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling my skin start to tense.

“Well, I’ll have to see,” I said, “I’ll have to wait and see. With my work, I mean.”

“Of course!” she said, smiling, “Just wanted to let you know.”

She smiled.

She had a nice smile.

White teeth. Straight.

She started to blush, and I knew that I had been staring.

“Well,” I said, looking over her shoulder, looking at the sky, looking behind me, “I better get back to work.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ll leave you to it and hope to see you Sunday.”

“Sunday?” I asked.

“The barbecue,” she replied, “The barbecue is Sunday at noon.”

“Well, we’ll see,” I said and smiled and waved and shut the door.

I could see her through my blinds as she walked down my path. She looked behind her, back at my door. I could see her face. I could see her scrunched eyebrows, her perplexed expression as if she was still processing our interaction. And then, she smiled again. A warm smile, soft and pleasant and deliciously normal. And then she kept walking back to her house and I kept staring out the window, unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to get her smile out of my head.

It is Sunday and I’m watching my neighbors walk to Cindy’s house.

I have never met my neighbors. Not really. We have never really spoken except for the occasional Hello.

I am standing at my door holding a box of brownies, indecisive about my next move.

If I go, will it seem strange to my other neighbors? Will they wonder why I haven’t been to gatherings before or said more than Hello?

If I don’t go, what will Cindy think? Will she think I’m rude or forgetful or anti-social or that I don’t care about being neighborly?

I stand and I think and I let the minutes pass by.

I rationalize that before this, my neighbors haven’t really reached out to me. We haven’t really gathered before. So, it won’t seem weird if I go. If I at least stop by.

I walk out the door. I glare against the sunlight. I try to channel the calmness I felt on my run this morning.

As I walk toward Cindy’s, I see her boy. I see him with his basketball talking to the man and woman who live across the street. I see how round his little face is and his chubby hands. I imagine putting those hands in my mouth and biting. Biting hard.

This was a mistake.

I turn and start to walk back to my house.

“Hey!” I hear a voice call.

I keep walking, hoping and praying the voice isn’t for me.

I hear feet running and then I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn and see Cindy. Her chest is rising and falling. Her cheeks are flushed.

“Where are you going?” she asks, smiling, eyes bright.

“I, uh, I was going to come but I just remembered I have a deadline,” I say, trying to sound calm. Reasonable. Honest.

I give her the box of brownies.

“Here,” I say.

“Oh,” she says, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” I say, “Sorry I can’t make it.”

“Just come for a few minutes,” she replies, “Please.”

And then she places her hand on my arm and my whole body is suddenly on fire. I can feel every pore, every cell, my brain is screaming.

I haven’t been touched in years.

She must see something because she quickly removes her hand.

“If you have to go, I understand,” she says, looking at the ground.

“I...I’ll come for a few minutes,” I say.

She smiles and takes my arm, and we walk back toward her house.

She’s speaking and saying words, but I can’t understand what she’s saying.

All I can see is her son standing at the door.

He’s smiling at us and waving frantically.

Cindy laughs and grips my arm.

“That’s my son,” she says, “His name is Alex.”

“Alex,” I repeat, tasting the name on my tongue.

“Alex,” Cindy says, “This is our neighbor. Mr…”

She looks at me, realizing she doesn’t know my name.

I give her one.

It isn’t mine but it’ll do.

Alex raises his hand to shake my own.

“Nice to meet you, mister,” he says, with a light lisp.

I take his hand. I squeeze it softly. I let it go. I concentrate on breathing.

The three of us walk to Cindy’s yard where a few other neighbors are. They look at me in surprise, as I knew they would.

I spend the next few minutes making small talk, trying not to sweat, not to be too awkward, not to scream in their faces.

I’m half listening to a man who lives a few doors down, talk to me about his stupid, boring job. Cindy is next to me with her hand still on my arm. I try to focus on her hand and not her son. I don't want to think about her son.

I feel a small hand on my back.

I turn to see Alex holding his basketball.

“Wanna play?” he asks, smiling at me. He has a gap between his two front teeth. I want to place my finger there. I want to feel his gums.

I want to play with Alex. I want to touch the basketball that he touches.

Instead, I say, “Sorry, Alex, I have to leave.”

I allow myself to touch his head. Only for a moment. His scalp is warm from the sun.

“You have to leave so soon?” Cindy asks and I can see the disappointment on her face, but I remind her of my deadline.

She nods in understanding and asks me if I’d like to come dinner sometime this week.

I say that I’ll have to see, but I know there will be no dinner. There will be nothing.

I walk quickly to my house and close and lock the doors and all the windows.

I close my eyes, tightly, as tight as I can, and bite my arms and legs and hands, and I push my thoughts away.

And then I hear the basketball against my walls.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

It pounds in my skull, in my heart, in my chest.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

I let myself look out the window.

I let myself stare at Alex.

I let my thoughts wander.

They’re only thoughts, after all.