The Familiar Stranger

She took the subway home from school, she always does. 8 Street Station, one of the closest stations to the university, where she spent her mornings, was particularly damp today. It had rained last night, just what she needed to add to the drab city atmosphere. 

Today was just a normal day. Every morning, she woke up at the crack of dawn just to throw on some clothes and run to the subway station. She would join the morning hustle of the city and pray that she could make it to her 9:30 class on time. It was her only class on Mondays after all; she had no reason to be late. The class was, however, most exciting. She was recruited out of high school to join the Army and today's class was preparation for secret missions and double agents. She must be the teacher’s favorite. She does do stellar in this class after all.  

After it was over, she grabbed her bag and the coffee she had bought on the way in and scurried out. She made it to the station in time, thankfully; the subway would be here any moment. She heard the subway and turned to enter the train, just the same as all the other people on the platform. 

“Oof,” she had run into a large man, tall, with a grey beard, grey hat, and no hair. “I’m so sorry, miss.” he responded politely. She flashed him a quick smile and they both boarded the subway. 

A week passed. As usual, nothing extraordinary happened. She attended her classes, the one on Monday always being her favorite, and she completed her homework like the good student she is. This week's homework was deciphering several codes from World War II  and she had greatly enjoyed them. Now, it is Monday again, and her routine repeats itself. Wake up, subway, coffee, class, subway, homework sleep, repeat. Just as she always does, she boards the subway, but something seems off. She turned around to see a large figure disappear behind another. In fact, it looks just like that man she saw on this exact station last week. Strange, she thought, there are so many people in this city and yet here he is. 

Week after week, there he was. Every Monday, she would start her commute home, holding on tightly to her bag full of codes, and he would be there, sometimes in plain sight, and sometimes not. But, no matter the circumstances, there he was. After four weeks, she started to see him everywhere. In the morning, she would wake up and swear she could see him out of her window. On her way to school he would be in the subway station. At the coffee shop on campus, he would always be sitting in the back corner with his grey hat to match his beard reading a small, black book, checking his phone, but never truly engaged. He was following her. She was convinced. He was at school, he was at the subway station, at the coffee shop, she would have sworn he was everywhere. 

Today, she came home and told her mom about this mysterious man. She explains his appearance, his grey beard and his likely grey hat, his black spined book and his bald head. But, mother claims she must be seeing things.

She came to the only logical conclusion, he knew about her secret training and the codes; he wanted them for himself. She became overly paranoid. She started to bring a new bag with her to school, a new folder for her codes. In the last month, her professor had started to give her real active codes currently being used in the United States military. She had, per procedure, not told anyone about this new assignment and this overwhelming responsibility but, somehow, he must have found out. 

The next Monday, she left her class with utmost caution. She had a new briefcase with a lock on top to keep the codes safe. Her professor knew she was up to the challenge, but he knew nothing about this man. Today, no one was outside of the classroom, it seemed as if all of the other students were gone.  He must be after them too, she thought as she ran out of her classroom towards the station. The whole world seemed now to be scary, everywhere she frequented had become a dark place filled with the looming presence of this mysterious man. She walked carefully, cautiously to the subway station, but he was nowhere to be found. Has he finally gotten off my case?, she thought, has he finally given up?  But instead of seeing this mysterious stranger on the subway platform, she saw her mom. This, by far was the most strange; her mom was never off work this early, what was she doing here? “It's alright sweetheart,” she said quietly to her daughter, “everything will be alright.”  She felt a pinch in her left arm, like a bee sting, and everything went dark. 

Mom? Where am I? She woke up in an unfamiliar room. She suddenly felt her throbbing headache and the pain in her arms, where she was tethered to the bed below her. She looked around to see a blank room with a clear glass door, outside was her mom and the mysterious man, looking as she always saw him, except today he was wearing a long white coat. The door slowly opened. Her mother and that man came in, together. 

“Hi, darling,” Mother said reassuringly, “this is Dr. Fitzgerald.” You know him? This is the man who has been following me for months! He is trying to steal the codes! He must be a spy! She thought, even though she couldn’t seem to get the words out; her mouth burned dry. She thrashed, trying to get free from the restraints. “But,-but the codes,” she managed to choke out. 

“Honey, the codes aren't real.”

She stopped thrashing. The doctor looked to the mother endearingly; they seemed as if they knew more than her, or at least they thought they did. 

“The codes aren't real. You aren’t enrolled in college. You were never recruited by the Army. Every Monday, I thought you were going to Central Park, where I had set up an exercise class for you. About a month ago, they notified me that they had not seen you in weeks. I was so concerned so I sent Dr. Fitzgerald to look after you. Your classes don't exist, there is no professor for double agents. The codes, they aren't real. I’m so sorry.”

She stared blankly at her mother. What could she possibly be talking about?

“Sweetheart, this is the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. You have schizophrenia.” She felt a familiar sharp sting in her left arm and turned her head to see a long needle. Then, she only saw black.