(Author’s Note: Hello. This might seem a bit random but it’ll make sense later on as I keep writing, okay? Sorry to keep you all waiting so long.)
Sherman, Texas
5 years ago
The man waited with short breath in the closet. He could barely fit in here and one motion would make the door spring open. His vision was impaired by the closet wood; all he could see was the smallest slit between the two doors. And that didn’t help him a lot. All he had to depend on was his hearing.
A mump alerted him and he pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to block his breathing by barriers.
Another mump. Footsteps, the man realized. His hands had the heaviest sheen of sweat; he had to work hard not to move a muscle. He cursed himself for putting the carpet down in his bedroom for winter—he could be grasping the closet door now!
There was a creak and the man prayed it hadn’t been him. Another creak. The person was just checking something. They grew fainter and he was just about to push out…when the footsteps came again.
Shit, the man screamed mentally. The footsteps were more rapid now and suddenly they stopped…
They slowly grew louder and louder. The man could barely breathe.
The closet door swung open.
“Oh, my God…”
“Is he okay? What happened?”
“…just fainted…he’s not breathing.”
I was amongst the crowd of people in Art class in third period to look at the unconscious form of Matheson. He was pale to the point where it looked more than sickly—more like unnatural. His red hair flopped back from his thin, handsome face and his body lay in a slouch that was to the point of sliding off the chair and sprawling on the floor.
“He’s not breathing?” I asked the last girl who had spoken. She shook her head, “His pulse is really faint. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive,”
Her answer was presented to her in that moment. Chester’s eyelids fluttered and then opened to many questions bombarded by his classmates:
“Are you okay?”
“What made you faint?”
“Were you having an episode or…?”
“Did the paint get to you…?”
He was going to be okay. I backed away from the crowd, my observer’s perspective putting an amused smile on my face. It was kind of odd how scandal and mystery affected people. Even a loner can be crowded when he has his weak moments.
Maybe it was more than a weak moment.
The girl’s answer echoed in my ears, “Not breathing…pulse is really faint…don’t know if he’s dead or alive…dead or alive…”
I looked at Chester again.
Only to find him staring at me with that same expression he had worn a week ago in Science. That frightened stare brought up what had happened after school, dredging it up from the deep swamp of my memory.
A man had followed me as I had walked the two blocks home from the bus stop in Seattle. Then just yesterday, I had found that my diary was missing. And I had remembered unpacking it when I first moved here.
Coincidence, I told myself. But my voice was getting less and less firm as I repeated the word over and over in my head.
“Are you doing anything today?”
I looked at Chester in mild surprise. It’d been the first time he’d talked to me. His voice was soft; past the point of being pubescent, but not exactly the developed baritone it was supposed to be.
“Why do you need to know?” I asked, bewildered.
No reply.
“Fine,” I said shortly. “I’m going back home.”
“No activities?”
“What are you? My stalker?” I snapped. That rebuke got me a shushing from my 6th-period teacher and I hissed at him, “I don’t plan on telling you every detail of my life!”
“Who do you tell?”
“My mom,”
“You have a diary or something?”
I frowned at him, “Yes! Every girl has a diary at some point,”
Chester said nothing, just stared at me for a little while and then returned to his work. Befuddled, I returned to my own paper and tried futilely to finish.
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