Everywhere I Am

The first time I notice her is at the market. I’m running my weekly errands today, gathering what I’ll need to eat. As I stroll through the isles, they seem eerily emptier than usual. There seems to be more air.

My basket is getting heavy, which means I should be ready to leave soon. It’s tugging my arm down, so gently, but I can feel the weight like a magnet to the ground. A woman, standing behind the cash, rings me up when I’ve finished. In all this empty space, it seems like we could be the only two here.

I read once that everyone has red in their hair, whether we can see it or not. This woman’s hair is such a shade of black that I’m convinced the red parts were replaced by blue. The light hits the side of her head in such a way that it looks as deep as the night sky; it should be filled with stars.

She hands me my bags, and tells me the price. I pay it in cash, and once it’s put away she smiles at me, violet lips in a crooked curved line. She seems to hesitate before saying, “Have a nice day,” but I can’t be sure. Her voice is sharp, shoots me like daggers. She speaks like each word has an edge – but before that, each word has a soft beginning. Maybe it's just a smooth voice.

Any way, it stunned me. I really do hesitate before saying, “You too,” and even then, I sound unsure. As I walk away, I can only hope I didn’t offend her.

. . .

I hadn’t noticed her eyes the first time; I was too entranced by the silk that is her hair, and the ocean waves that are her voice.

Now, they’re all I notice.

Deep, melodic eyes, creeping into my dreams. Violet as deep as passion, and yellow flecks as rich as gold. Not staring, not quite, but watching from a distance. Them, always there, always keeping track of me. Then me, more intent on them than they on me. They always take a spot, always present in my sleep – dreams, or nightmares, or the kind of day sleep that happens when I gaze out the window.

It doesn’t really matter, though; it’s only my subconscious.

Even so, I can’t feel alone. Since I’ve seen her – her powdered white face, her eyes like melted ice – she’s with me. Even though she’s not. I always feel a gaze on my back, always a distanced glare of someone - but not someone, of her. I miss the times that I used to feel truly alone. I should have cherished them even more than I did, because even if it’s only in my head, I can’t get the same feeling as I used to. She’s always there, even as a trick of my mind.

 . . .

The next time I see her – really, actually see her – is on a walk to my cousin’s apartment. The sidewalks, bustling, pouring over the brim with people, are hard to maneuver. I’m filled with sonder, eyes glazed over with a dazed understanding, only for a moment. Then reality hits, as it always does. She’s watching me, as she always does. Then she, the nameless girl – the one with features so symmetrical that I believe she was drawn – bumps into me. Her shoulder hits mine and my handbag drops to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she says, confidently and softly, three syllables perfectly balanced on her tongue. So simple, it seems, that I’ve been overthinking her.

She bends over to pick up my bag, handing it back to me in a simple, perfected movement, as if it’s been refined over and over again, cut down to the last perfect motion. For a brief moment I can feel her hand, and it isn’t cold like I’d have expected. She’s a snowy white colour like the ground after a winter storm, untouched, and fresh. But not cold. Burning, like an endless fire. Skin so hot it should be aflame. When we touch I half expect her white skin to crack open, lines glowing red, lava bubbling up from under the surface. But that, simply, doesn’t happen.

“It’s all right,” I say easily, because I’m not phased. I thought I’d choke out the words, but it’s smooth, because it feels normal. She’s with me all the time, except this time it’s real, and I can barely feel the difference.

One last smile is all she gives me; one crooked line, the colour of bleeding grapes.

Her smile is the one thing imperfect about her. Except that’s not true, because her crooked smile is perfect in its own way. Then she walks away, off to wherever she’s headed. I stare back, looking dumbfounded, I’m sure, as her silhouette gets smaller. Still close, not so far, but she in herself seems like a walking silhouette; she is made up of only the shades black and white, absorbing the colour around her, swallowing it like a beautiful, elegant black hole. I only watch for a second, and then I continue walking.

She doesn’t feel gone, of course.

. . .

Sometime later, hours or days, I empty my handbag. I’m looking for a receipt, one of a book I bought not long ago. I don’t find it. I find a receipt for the purchase I made at the market, the first time I saw her, and I’m urged to throw it out as soon as I see it. I’m convinced that it’s gone on too long. It’s crazy. And it’s creepy. By now I’ve almost convinced myself to get rid of this obsession, of this girl – the one who walks with rhythmic strides, as perfectly paced as a timeless melody. Though I don’t know why; it’s not like I could make that conscious decision.

As I crumple it up, the back of it shows, revealing a spot where black ink is smeared on. I pause. I would say that time freezes, except that time can’t freeze. Everything else, though – the clock, the noises of cars outside, the beating of my heart – they freeze.

Silence falls on me, quieter than I've ever known, stiller than I ever could have imagined.

Then, first in slow motion, they start again. Just like that, it’s back to normal – a ticking clock, moving cars, and my beating heart.

Carefully, I unfold the receipt. A long printed list, faded ink and small lettering, a font so aged it comes with wrinkles.

I flip it over to the backside, where there’s smudged writing - large, hypnotic handwriting. In black ink and under the smudges, four words are written smoothly, each letter looping over, each one telling a story. Words as beauteous as calligraphy, but only written with a ballpoint pen, I’m sure. It’s not a coincidence, it says, and then I have all the reason to keep obsessing.

. . .

Third and fourth and fifth and sixth times all blend together. At a grocery store, in the park, sitting in a tree, lying on a rooftop. The times so close together, I can barely tell them apart.

My point of view of this girl is starting to change; it used to be an interest, a confusion, a coincidence of sorts. It turned into a kind of guilty pleasure, something I should be scared of, but not finding the fear. Unfortunately though, now, I have found the fear.

It's more, actually, like the fear has found me.

It creeps in under doorways at the middle of the night. It peeks around corners, jumping out before I expect. It seeps through the spines of books I read, and bleeds onto every piece of clothing I own.

I’ve known fear before, and this time is not much different.

I don’t feel her watching me anymore. She’s not following me every step I take or watching my every move. She’s still in my dreams sometimes, but I can’t possibly mind after how bad it used to be. I’m happy that I can feel alone again. I’m grateful that I can know it’s only me and an empty room.

She’s been replaced with a feeling, though, pure of fear, of knowing that if I ever let my guard down, it will consume me. When I’m alone, it’s the scariest, because I’m most vulnerable to this feeling, like a sickness waiting to take me. The worst part is that there’s no getting around it: before the fear takes me, I’m already scared of it. Either way, I’m always worried. Either way, I’ve been ruined.

. . .

Seven, eight, nine to twenty four times. Everywhere, in the distance and up close, passing by and staying put. Everywhere I am is everywhere she is. Everywhere there seems to be nothing else. Everywhere, she, a perfect silhouette.

Time number twenty four, I’m in the woods, in the wilds. Alone, left all alone, to find my way. Never been here before, never want to come back.

The wind brushes my ear, drops of mist whispering down the back of my neck.

Through the tops of the trees I can see the black clouds, frowning down on me, stale. It’s not raining yet; they’re waiting for something, the clouds are looking for some kind of sign.

Something, rustling in the bushes. In front of me, then beside. Just a rabbit.

Something, moving through the treetops, loosening the leaves. Just the wind.

Something, far behind me, careful footsteps on the dry, leaf-covered ground. Nothing, it’s nothing. It’s just her.

She moves in closer behind me, step-by step. I can’t see her, but I know.

Her, the one with eyes as deep as ocean trenches.

Each footstep leaves a crunching noise, leaving the dry old leaves to crumble

beneath them.

Her, the one who cracks a smile sharp as daggers at something unamusing.

They’re light footsteps. I wouldn’t hear them if not for the leaves.

Her, the one whose voice continues, echoing after she’s closed her mouth.

Even so, I’m sure she’d be able to walk silently. She wants me to hear.

Her, the one who can freeze you with a single glare.

Her, the one who you can feel watching, even if you can’t see her. The one who’s been watching me all along, even if I couldn’t see her. The one whose touch is hotter than the sun, but makes you feel infinitely cold. The one who freezes you in every way. The one whose gaze makes you feel as if you’ve turned to stone, when, you most certainly have not.

Her, the one who most certainly, can’t possibly, ever be real.

Her, the one who most certainly, but is impossibly, real.

Her, the one who defies the laws. She probably makes the laws. She is real, but it’s easy to deny.

Her, impossibly, absolutely positively, completely real.

She takes a last step, creeping up behind me. My back almost touching her, but it is not. I, not daring to turn around.

The black clouds rumble, letting out their rain, their wrath. The drops hitting the

trees, the leaves, sounding like a gust of wind, sounding like a storm.

Her hand on my shoulder, burning like a million stars. In the corner of my eye, her hand, white as icing sugar. Her breath on my neck, finally, cold.

Her breath is as cold as I’d expect.

Her voice, smelling like peppermint and looking like knives.

Cutting into my ear, three words.

“Are you scared?”

Then,

darkness. Black like a room with no windows or doors. Dark like the feeling I get

thinking about her.

Sweat, on my forehead, my arms, my legs. My neck, by back. Loose clothes sticking to me.

My hand, shaking, fumbling beside me, desperately feeling for and finding the cord, pulling it, and the lamp turning on.

Just a dream. But I can’t possibly believe that.

A word falls out of me, stumbles out awkwardly. Shaking, quavering, hot and cold. I whisper it, whimper it, cry it, moan it, weep it, wail it, whisper it. It comes out awkwardly but it only feels right, because it’s the truest answer I’ve ever given, the most meaningful word I have ever said,

“Yes.”

And she knows.