Today, I was watching YouTube and there was a video that reminded me of this short story I had to write in my last year of high school.

I was 17 years old and had been struggling with my mental health in secret for 4 years at this point. I wasn’t always sad, I felt happy a lot of the time but there were also a lot more times that I wasn’t doing okay.

I am sure there were moments that my family could see it, although it mostly raged at me at night when I was alone.

At the time, I was a 17 year old kid, dating someone 5 years older than me, who I would soon become engaged to and marry soon after I graduated. As much I am sure you are curious about that, it will have to be a story for another time.

I found myself reading a lot of books. There was one series that really interested me. It was a christian book series following a girl who moved to Hawaii where she made tons of new friends and the person she would eventually marry years down the road. There were also a few spin off series that followed her best friend and another girl we meet in the original series. There were 4 books about her in high school, more books about her college years, and as I was loosing interest in the books, ones coming out about her married years.

Needless to say, I was obsessed. I actually just looked it up and the author also wrote about the ‘baby years’.

This world is what sparked and grew my interest in romance books. It was all I read for so long, although they were all christian or YA so nothing too crazy at the time.

When it came time for me to have to write this short story though, my first thought was that I didn’t want to write a romance. It felt like the thing I had to write about, although no one actually put those expectations on me.

So, I decided that I would write a more suspense/horror short story, and today I thought about it.

Throughout the last 10 years since I have written it, I have picked it up periodically to reread. Normally, I get the urge to rewrite it to make it better or longer but I don’t know if I have it in me to actually build a world and its characters.

I showed it to Nat when we had first started dating and I remember he said that it didn’t feel like there was an actual conclusion to it. But honestly I like the ending still because I wanted it to make you have to wonder what happens.

It’s a short story for god’s sake, aren’t they supposed to make you think? (I could be soooooo far off base about what the point of short stories can be but this is my world in this blog).

This was the first time rereading it though, that I really saw things in this that reflected how I was feeling and dealing with things then. I see my broken relationship with my mom and dad. The loneliness I felt in being a high school where I knew no one and had no relationships in. There are small details I wrote in that describe small things about my dad, in the way he walks and smiles. I honestly can’t believe that little 17 year old Blair actually wrote this and turned it in as an assignment.

So dear readers, I have put it here for you to read. Go easy on me please. After all, I wrote this when I was 17 years old and lost, confused, and sad with no one to truly talk to about it. Funny thing is, you will notice that there is at least one thing that hasn’t changed about me, my shitty grammar lol. I was rereading it and was chuckling at myself at the places that I messed up, and I am leaving those in for you as well.

I hope you enjoy. Again, please don’t judge me lol.

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Again, I sit here listening to the conversations going on in the crowded café and the constant chattering of those voices in my head. I watch as the regular red headed woman walks into the bookstore across the street, like she does at this time everyday..

Thinking back to the argument I had had with my wife a couple of months ago, before she left me, “You need to see a doctor,” she told me. “You are not the man I married 25 years ago, what happened to you. There is no emotion there anymore, not towards me or the things you used to love.”

I shook my head at her, “Honey, I just don’t know. I know that I have changed but as hard as I try I can’t just make things happen like that. You can’t blame this all on me, I’m not the only one who has been acting different”

“I am not talking about me right now. Things have been weird between us, yes, but I am worried about you, your whole family is. I know your mom just died and we are all working through this loss, but that is no excuse for the way you have been acting.”

“I don’t need your help or pity,” I responded, “I have everything under control. Plus, I’ve gotten over it, it’s done… she is gone.”

I was suddenly brought back to the present by a loud yelling and sounds of commotion going on around me. I looked around quickly only to see average people sitting in their normal chairs and drinking their regular drinks.

It was nothing.

Once again.

They are playing Their malicious tricks on me. Always threatening. Although They are never courageous enough to show me Their faces while I am awake, only in my defenseless sleep, taking over my thoughts and body. I used to ask Them to leave but They would just laugh and sneer, making more stabs at my already pounding headache.

Just ignore Them. They don’t know. They don’t care. They aren’t human. And They aren’t real.

I look down at my cracked, burned, and battered hands courtesy of the secret consequences that started burdening me after my mothers’ death and my wife leaving me. Hearing someone clear their throat beside me, I quickly hide my hands under the table and look up at the waitress with her curious eyes. When will she get the courage to ask me what her eyes say? As she walks away with my order, I look down at my watch and see that it has stopped at the same time as it does daily. Before I look up, I know what I will see. The red headed girl walks out of the bookstore with her hands full. Sitting on the bench beside the shop, she grabs a book from the pile and begins to read.

Everyday I come to this cafe, sit in this spot, and order the same meal. I personally think it is the best spot in the café. From where I am sitting you can watch the morning sun, shining through the fall leaves and umbrellas. It feels like it warms you from the inside out, giving one a short moment of calmness. 

From here I have the perfect view of the street. I can people watch while sipping my tea and consuming the large cinnamon roll. Since I started this routine, I see the woman across the street often. As I watch her read, I feel drawn to her. Like someone I used to know, she sits with one leg up, pulled close to her. While she reads, she twirls the hair that’s at the base of her neck.

Pulling back to myself, I grab the extra set of batteries out of my pocket, pull the “old” pair out of my watch and stick those in my pocket for tomorrow when the ones that I replaced them with stop working just like they did yesterday. I reset my watch to 9:02, like I do everyday.

A few minutes later my waiter places my tea, cinnamon roll, and check down on the table. I grab my cash from the bag and lay it on the table. My mind trails off again and when I find myself again I look down at the watch to see it was already 10:30. It’s crazy how much time flies when you’re not the only one in your head.

***

I walk into the community center, sign in, and immediately walk into the kitchen to start gathering the ingredients we need for today’s lunch. I look over at my kitchen companion and she gives me a smile back. Just like when I watch her read her book, I get that same feeling as usual. She has that crooked smile, where one side of her mouth rises higher than the other, always reminding me of someone I once loved.

“Good morning, I saw you at the bookstore this morning. I am surprised you manage to find new books to read, considering how quickly you go through them.”

She looked at me with humor in her eyes, “I think the shop is making special orders for me to keep my coming back. They have such a surprising selection for the size of the store.”

We continued to make small talk as we worked, preparing the different versions of grilled cheese for the people. As we finished on the last ones, we started to clean up.

Working with her was nice, we are able to get into a good routine and get our work down quickly and efficiently.

Looking down at her wrist, I am taken aback by a piece on her bracelet. I had seen the exact charm before, on my ex wife. Although it could be a coincidence considering that it isn’t the most unique charm out there. A delicate looking flower with five petals was attached to her wrist.

After a while I noticed that she had been trying to get my attention. “You seem quite interested in my new charm?” She asked with a strange tone in her voice, “I am surprised you noticed it since it is so small.”

“It’s new isn’t it? Sorry for being weird, it’s just that my ex wife had one similar. She had got it for herself a few months before she left…” trailing off, I look away. A little embarrassed, I grab my things. Strange things always happen around me, but I think it could also be confirmation bias.

***

That night I dreamed of waking up next to my wife, everything being normal. She looked at me with her unique smile. Her lips were moving but no words were coming out. Slowly her face began to morph into grotesque imagery of smashed faces, faces that had been blown up, covered in bee stings. All with my wife’s smile.

They were torturing me again. They knew how to get me, I felt like I was drowning, in the grief and fear of the next face I would see next.

Suddenly the screaming started again and I was thrown out of bed, landing on my side, facing the wall.

I laid motionless, knowing what was next, what I would need to do

The screaming stopped and it was suddenly quiet. I took a few deep breaths and in my head, I walked through the steps I would have to do next. The longer I think about it, the more painful the breaths become. Every inhale is like swallowing knives and makes me exhale quickly, making me feel like I am unable to take a full breath.

There is something else in the room, I could feel it by the window, waiting.

The dead come to me for refuge and freedom, yet I am the prisoner. 

I look at my window and see it open again and I see where it walked and I turn and see it lying beside me on the floor. I catch my breath at the fiery red head tangled in front of her face. I sign because that’s all the emotion I need to feel right now. I just need to get this done so I can forget. I look her over and see the bruises and no cuts or blood. Just bruises.

I see the bracelet lying on the ground and I pick it up and put it back on her wrist. I knew my wife had given this to her. This is who I thought she was.

I walk into the bathroom, counting my steps, counting those painful breaths. I pull out the blue dye and gently wash my hands, staining them. Then I get out the iron and plug it in. I grab the small cloth and put it in my mouth and begin to press the iron against my fingers. Once I’m done, I bandage my hands and wipe the tears out of my eyes. Not from the iron because I can’t feel anything there anymore. But because those knives have stopped stabbing my stomach and have started stabbing my heart. I go into the room and pick her up off my bed and walk out to my car where I gently place her in the backseat.