Note: This story contains elements of stalking and coercion.

Six months, I’ve spent in silence. This is my first attempt at breaking it, so bear with me as I start at the beginning.

I first noticed him at the gym. He was scrawny, with thinning brown hair and a weak chin. His shirt had a nondescript logo and the marks of having been in the dryer too often. He didn’t work out; he just stood there, by the weights, occasionally glancing up at the mirror. Arrogant prick, I thought. I turned to my own weights, but something made me look back at him - and then I realized he wasn’t using the mirror to look at himself, but at what - or who - was behind him. Our eyes met, and the world around me went silent; his pupils dilated to a black vortex. I felt my very essence spiraling into it… I tore my gaze away from him, shivering, cold sweat seeping down my back. Talk about a creep! I hastily wiped down my weights and left.

A week later, I was back to lifting, thinking of nothing but my repetitions, when he approached me with an awkward, pigeon-toed gait. His eyes were pale, watery, and undilated; his posture suggested shyness and hesitation, but there was nothing scary about him. Had I imagined it all? As he came closer, I braced myself and practiced a polite, but firm “no” in my head - because whatever the question, that had to be the answer.

I was surprised when he just handed me my water bottle and said in a nasal voice, “Sorry, I accidentally grabbed this. I have one that looks just like it.”

I forced a smile and thanked him—I certainly had never seen him with a water bottle, but I suppose mine was pretty generic. Still, I was annoyed; the fewer interactions I had with this man, the better. I went up to my HIIT class, an especially sweaty one with lots of back-to-back cardio, and didn’t think about him again until I walked out of the classroom to refill my bottle. He was leaning against the wall, looking at his phone. I stood by the water fountain and filled the bottle, and couldn’t help but feel a prickling sensation in my back - I turned around and saw that he was watching me.

That night, I had the most intense dream about him. He showed up at my doorstep with a hundred roses. It was dark outside, the stars were glimmering as they never do here in the city, and he took my hand and walked me to a spot in the park that smelled of fresh grass and flowers. We sat down and shared a bottle of wine. I looked at him, and his eyes were now an intriguing shade of hazel, green with flecks of brown, and I thought he was awfully handsome. We kissed, and it was the most intense, tender kiss I’ve ever received. I woke up the next morning shaking, with my sheets drenched in cold sweat. What on earth had my brain jumbled together that night? This guy from the gym - he was plain, bordering on ugly, and most of all, extremely creepy - certainly not my type. What was wrong with me? I shuddered, took a long, hot shower, and dashed off to work.

All day, my mind kept flitting back to the guy from the gym. With my ex, I’d realized that I liked him through an intense dream, too - I suppose I’d been subconsciously attracted to him, and the dream brought it to the front of my mind; was that what this was? But yesterday, there had been … nothing - less than nothing; I’d wanted him to stay away from me. His presence made me uncomfortable. I shook my head, as if to shake off any thought of him, but throughout the day, his face took shape in my thoughts and was increasingly hard to dissolve.

That evening, I invited Stacy and Bree for a bottle of wine. I desperately needed a distraction. I told them all about how I had increased my protein intake, when I took a sip from my water bottle and – felt something tiny, sharp, and hard in my mouth. I scooped it up with my tongue and then plucked it up with two fingers – it looked like – a tiny claw?

“Oh my God, what is that?” Stacy screamed.

“Let me see that,” Bree reached for it. She’s a vet and a lot less squeamish than Stacy. She took the claw and examined it critically. “Could be a rodent’s - like a mouse or something.”

Stacy and I screeched in unison.

“How did this get into your mouth?” Bree asked.

“I’ve no idea…” I shuddered, then looked at the water bottle.

“Let me take this to the lab,” Bree said, “actually, give me the whole bottle. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

A week of dreaming about the man from the gym nightly, then my phone finally rang, and Bree had results.

“I was right,” she said, not without an air of triumph, “it’s a rat’s claw.”

I almost vomited into my morning coffee. Before I could say anything, she went on.

“And I found something else.”

“What?” I asked feebly, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

“A cat’s hair. Whiskers, to be precise. As well as traces of …” she hesitated.

“What?” I asked, now impatient - what could be worse than a rat’s claw in my water bottle?

“Blood. And… bone fragment,” she gulped, “human.”

I closed my eyes, but the swirling sensation in my head did not lessen, so I clung to the edge of the table. Then, I doubled over and vomited on the carpet.

The next week was a blur; I remember showering, going to the gym, to work, and shopping, but it all happened in a daze. On Thursday, I was in my second set of Romanian Deadlifts - he walked up to me, planting his feet at that slight inward angle as he walked, a smile flickering around his thin lips.

“I was wondering,” he clears his throat. His nasal voice irritates me. “If you’d like to get coffee with me sometime.” His lips split into a grin, displaying uneven teeth.

My mouth opened on its own accord. The voice that reverberated from my vocal chords felt like a stranger’s when it said: “That would be lovely!” To my horror, my cheeks rise and rise into a smile; my jaw is clenched, and every muscle in my body is acting outside of my control.

That was six months ago. Since then, we’ve moved in together. We’re getting married next month.

“Gosh, you’re moving fast,” Stacy shakes her head. She and Bree are over to visit for the first time since the engagement. “But I suppose that’s what you do when it’s real love - must be that,” she adds under her breath, “or money - does he have money? Come on, you can tell us!”

“I love him more than anything in the world!” I hear myself say, in a sickening sweet tone that isn’t my own.

“Look at you, all lovey-dovey,” Stacy grins at Bree, “who would’ve thought?”

That awful, cheek-clenching smile curls onto my face, and a chuckle that sounds nothing like me escapes my mouth. I want to tell them everything, but the words won’t come out. I can’t speak about any of it. And who would believe me?

He enters the room, his toes pointing toward each other as he walks, and his pupils dilate to a greedy black as he sees us three women in his living room.

“Hello, ladies,” he presses out, clearly trying to contain his excitement at Bree’s and Stacy’s bare crossed legs in high heels. I’m wearing a shapeless dress; the garter and stockings beneath it are only for him to see.

“How are you this morning, my love?” I purr in that simpering voice, and Bree and Stacy exchange a giggle.

“Oh, quite well, quite well,” he replies and leans against the counter with an attempt at casualness. He grabs a toothpick and chews on it in imitation of a 1950s movie star smoking a cigarette while flirting. “How about I make us some of that fresh-pressed juice you like so much?”

“Oh yes, that would be lovely!” I hear myself say. I would gag if I could; I know exactly what’s in the juice, and what it does to me, but there’s no point trying to resist. He makes the juice every morning, then hands it to me, and says: “Drink up!”

And every time, I drink. My own hand and mouth betray me, forcing the liquid down my throat.

I try to catch Bree’s eye as he turns his back to us, fiddling with the juicer, but my head won’t even turn in her direction.

“Here you go, ladies,” he says, showing us his crooked teeth and handing each of us a glass of fresh, mango-yellow juice.

“Ooh, this is delicious,” Bree takes a sip and smacks her tongue.

I hold the glass in my hand, about to drink, when I realize that my hand isn’t raising the glass of its own accord, like it usually does. How - wait! Something’s different! He didn’t say, “Drink up!” – he was so busy trying to impress my friends, he forgot to utter the magic words… But maybe he’s toying with me - perhaps, he’ll still say it –

“Well, ladies, that’s me, off to work!”

He forgot! He really forgot! I think fast; before he turns to leave, I raise my juice glass to my lips, pretending to drink. And he’s gone!

“Why aren’t you drinking your juice?” Stacy asks.

I try to explain, but the words still won’t come - his grip on me is still strong, but I manage a shrug. With physical effort, I stand up and walk to the sink, where I tip the glass – and the mango-yellow liquid oozes down the drain.

“Oh my gosh, you and your thing with carbs!” Stacy laughs. “It’s just a juice, for heaven’s sake!”

Later, as I bid my friends goodbye at the door, I can clearly feel it: slowly, ever so, I am regaining some level of control. I still can’t talk freely to Bree and Stacy, but sharing my experience won’t help me - they’ll just think I’m getting cold feet about the wedding. No - my new priority is to regain enough control so that I can take care of the problem myself.

I walk into the bathroom and look at the mirror. For the first time in months, I truly see myself— and I smile. I am a patient woman; day by day, I’m going to get stronger; the thought widens my smile into a grin; I’m going to regain my agency, and once I have the power to mix my own drinks…

Six months, I’ve spent in silence. I picture his pale face turning blue– and burst into unrestrained, glass-shattering laughter.