i see you

By Jasmine Miller

“I think…I’m being stalked.”

“Tell me about it.”

Click. Chke— tdo— tdo— tdo—

Mr. Jones’ hand falls from the metronome, a rhythmic sixty BPM tempo resonating against the office walls. His blinks subdue, falling in beat with the half notes, to the scrape at the window from the tree branch, to the tatter of her fingernails plucking loose threads from her seat on the couch.

The room calms the trouble going down her throat.

She speaks.

“…they’re… everywhere.”

Graduating louder — thumpthumpthudthudthudthud — the rubber on her beat-leather All-Stars crescendos through the tapping of Mr. Jones’ pen to paper, destroying the barrier of comfort and reality.

Her eyes shift, twitching, like a fruit fly among many dates, a fidget normal to her nowadays.

The thinning couch cushion grows thinner and scrawny and anorexic by the passing time.

“I’ve been walking home recently…heh.” The strands of hair shielding her eyes make an even more opaque curtain across her face. A hand rushes to the fringe, fingers threading their way through and pulling like gardeners to weeds. “And every night past 6:00 PM, a man’s waiting outside the shop below my building.”

“I thought it was a one-time thing, but no...I go to the grocery store uptown—”

“BAM!! He’s down the soap aisle. I go to the salon for a haircut—”

BLAAT!

Her palms slam against the coffee table between them.

BLAAT!

“BAM!! He’s in the shampoo chair. I go home for a weekend to visit my parents and—”

BLAAT!

“BAM!! He’s walking the track at the park near my mother’s house.”

Chke— tdo— tdo— tdo— Mr. Jones switches his crossed legs from left to right and coughs.

She continues.

“I don’t know if I’m just seeing things, but I’ve never seen his full face—”

Maybe it’s the medication.

“But I could have sworn I’ve seen him in person—”

NO! from the front…

“…He never does anything. He’s never approached me, but I know he’s dangerous—I’m in danger—I KNOW IT!”

Chke— tdo— tdo— tdo— chke— td—

Her breath hangs from her lips, distressed and haunted, all while the metronome stops. One hand lies on the metal dagger in the trapezoid box while another cradles a notepad. His eyes, Mr. Jones’ eyes, rest unphased on the subject across from him.

“Perhaps….if you truly feel concerned for your safety, document your interactions with him. It can help warrant an arrest.”

***

It’s been several days since her last appointment with Mr. Jones, and she’s seen the man five times. Every moment, she would shudder behind burgundy bundled arms and find a way to record his demise.

Once, outside the bank.

Click

It was a mere zoomed-in selfie.

Another, going to the library.

Click

She captured an elegant rose, up close and blurred.

Two more times at the Italian eatery she frequents.

Click

Click

Just pictures of her love of pasta and breadsticks.

The last…by her safety spot.

Mr. Jones’ office was secluded on its own. Burrowed back into the corner of a twenty-shop store front, his alcove ran down the back alleys past an old Sbarro soon to be shut down. Feral cats and stray dogs made haven here, as well as the mentally unstable and klepto-fiend types.

And so did she…at least, she thought.

A clear sky, yet gray and muddy, falls over her, molasses seeping into every divot and crevice of her soul. Her feet pit-pat on the asphalt; she, becoming the rain the sky promised. And as she shuffles from foot to foot, she sees him.

Outside the door frame, clad in autumn, is the man. His hair is neat.

Probably from the shampoo; that salon costs a fortune!

He looks well-dressed and clean.

Heh–yeah, because of the soap he bought “shopping” in my same grocery store! And his frame…athletic, far from average.

Of course, he looped around that track like fifteen times!

thumpthumpthudthudthudthud!

Her foot thumps to no end, creating its own salsa beat for the rats and ants to jive to. The grip she has on her jacket cuff loosens, her fingers going to work on the dangling thread dripping from the cotton.

She fumbles at her bag.

A million things at once jump to her fingers, and her hand finds everything she doesn’t need right now—

ping!

Her phone.

Her feet speed up, seeing the windows and umbrella stands as chanting fans in her race to justice.

She, has business to finish—

she, wants to walk freely again—

she—

Click.

“…heh…hehe….heheha…” The shits and giggles explode from her lips. “ahahaha!”

She shudders. She quakes.

Light hushed laughter dances under her breath as she stares at the screen.

Yes! I got it! I’ve seen his face!

After all the agonizing, excruciating weeks she’s gone through, trailing her feet under dampened streetlights and crooked cobblestone, she can ease the rugged voice whispering back.

‘i seeeee youuuuu.’

stop.stop.stop.stop.stop!

“Hey—”

The rapid pounding of her fists and palms on her forehead cease.

budump

Her heartbeat bursts into movement—budumpbudumpbudump—fingernails bitten to stubs, turning white around the silicone case in her hand.

“Ergh—”

“Who are you!?!” Her wrists were held above her head, she, squirming under his grasp. Though he stopped her from knocking herself unconscious, he…was him.

It’s him. Him. He’s touching me. He’s hurting me. He—he— help—

“Who are you? Why are you taking pictures of me?!” His grip tightens on her wrists, indenting ring prints through her sleeve as she thrashes.

“HELP!!! HELP!!”

Her knuckles pop, dropping the phone to the dirt below.

Crack.

Ugly breaths throw up from her lungs out of control. She’s wrecked and sobbing, snot gushing from her nostrils, tears trickling down her cheeks, mascara adding to the salty mix.

“…let me go!”

Thdump!

He obeys. In a heap, she collapses to the gravel. Behind bang-covered eyes, she watches his legs bend at the knee to a crouch.

“Eh! Don’t touch me—”

ping!

“Why are you following and taking pictures of me?” His finger swipes upon the cracked screen now in his hand. All the selfies, all the rose pictures, all the pasta and breadsticks—all of it, his eyes are seeing.

He has my phone. I can’t call for help if he has my phone. What if he tries to kill me?

budumpbudumpbudump

The ability to move or speak is foreign to her now. She is a vegetable, paralyzed from the neck down, while her mind runs vivid and wild. He never looks her way in this drawn-out interaction, just eyes flickering over messages and images and notes built up against him, about him, of him—

He’s the dangerous one, not me— him!

“Don’t you hear me talking to you? Why do you keep following me?”

No! Don’t turn this on me! Why are you following me?!

thumpthumpthudthudthud

He drops his head down to his shoulder, eyes furrowed and ferocious, daring to reach her timid pupils behind her wall.

“Are you deaf? I said, why are you following me?”

Thumpthumpthudthudthudthud

“I— you—”

“Are you stalking me?”