I have his phone number. It’s like being able to reach out and caress him whenever I want. But I mustn’t! I can’t! If I were to allow it, I would be messaging him every minute, sending him horrific descriptions of every passing suggestion spit forth within my head. One way ticket to a restraining order, and probably a psych evaluation, and then game over. That JERK! First he tames me like some ditzy doll-eyed hanger-on with no greater aspirations than being a housewife, then he tries to trick me into becoming the headline of the week?
For all my coveting, he is not the only aspect of my life. I have an apartment, I have friends, I have dreams that don’t involve him.
That much is a lie, there is never a night that I go to sleep and do not wake with his name on my li-
Hold on. I slept in his apartment. Did I sleeptalk there?
Now I must contend with the possibility that he heard me calling his name in my sleep.
Should I just give up now? I’ve been away from him for perhaps two hours, and all I’ve done is think about him, him, him, and tossed and turned on my own bed. I throw my pillow at the wall, and it slumps to the floor, briefly becoming a vision of him, sliding to the ground with terror in his eyes. I clamp my hands over my mouth and sob.
I am back to this, then. My world has flipped on its axis.
Trying to focus on work does not help. Target Costello won’t be leaving for another day. The press conference got pushed back because of the flood. I’ve already emailed Jim a few photos I took on my way home, but my phone camera has no hope of competing with anyone who was more prepared.
I drag myself by my hands up into my computer chair, and lay my head on my desk. I watch the time refuse to pass. Getting my sleep schedule back will be easy enough, but making it to that point is another matter. I open my web browser, and scroll listlessly through blogs, posts, and updates.
Midway through my seventeenth video about advances in lockpick design, I slap my own cheeks and grunt. I open the surveillance feeds from the hotel, and roll back the tape, until I see target Costello in the grainy video. She does not stop at the desk. I. Am an idiot. I scroll back further. I watch a man walk in reverse out of the room. He too does not stop at the desk. Oh? Oh, oh? I wonder now if he keeps the room on indefinitely. Then, my expectations are shattered as a second man shuffles out of the room and does not stop at the desk. Close behind him comes a third man, who is finally the one to check in.
I flop out of my chair and onto the floor, and celebrate by pumping all my limbs at random, quietly screaming.
“YES YES YES, JACKPOT!”
I leap up and record each individual addition to the room, my glee only increasing when a fourth man and another woman arrive together after the target, joining the pile. I splice the videos into an edited, sped up clip that slows down for each entrance, and I manually highlight each individual frame by frame. I reserve my judgment for another time, today is a day for celebration twice over, first for surviving a night at his house, second for catching my own laziness.
I send a short email to the client, and attach a photograph of one of the men and the other woman from the video, asking if he recognizes them. My primary goal is to keep him interested, but if he does have more useful information, it can speed me towards finishing the case ahead of time.
He replies in a few minutes, and says that he thinks the woman is one of the target’s friends. I send a short reply, saying that I will continue investigating, and that I expect further developments soon.
I rise from the desk, sigh happily, and reward myself by falling into bed and letting an idle daydream play out in my head.
I picture Octavian feeding me cherries, in the middle of a field, a bottle of wine between us.
Oh, this is unusually self-serving, and rather tame. I bite my lip and roll over, uncomfortable with the implications of the fantasy. And since when do I take so long to realize such a straightforward way to advance a case?
I should probably update Raphael.
I find my phone, and open my contacts. I swipe past the clear impossibility of his contact, and hover my thumb over the call symbol under Raphael’s name. After a sigh, I press. One ring. Two rings. Three. On the fourth, it clicks.
“Mm, Candy?”
Ah, right. He’d still be sleeping.
“Hi Ralphie. Sorry for not calling you directly. I didn’t want to answer questions about the date at his apartment.”
There is a frighteningly long pause, and I wonder if he has fallen back asleep.
“So, did you get some tail?”
I nearly hang up.
“No, Ralph. I stayed the night because of the flooding.”
“But you couldn’t pick up the phone.”
Ah.
“Ralphie, please be fair. Would you be firing on all cylinders in that situation?”
I bite my thumb. I’m being a little unfair to Ralphie, but I can’t just come out and say that I passed out from the excitement of being in that bed. He’d probably think I’d been drugged. Octavian wouldn’t have to roofie me though, just one touch and-
I shake the thought away and sigh.
“I’m sorry, Ralphie. There was a lot happening, and I was so focused on not screwing up the crazy moment that was happening, and I just…”
“I get it. I do. But it does hurt my feelings, to have Igor be the one to tell me you don’t wanna talk.”
“Damn. Ralph, I…”
He groans.
“Alright, enough of this whiny shit, tell me about the date!”
I smile despite myself, and for some reason, it feels real without trying.
Night time. My time. Thursday night into Friday morning. My Friday. It’s time for some prep work. Tomorrow is Saturday, holiest day under the stalker moon. But target Costello likes to do her business during that span. So, now I have to lay a trap to catch her.
People are predictable. They fall into habit without realizing. But my biggest obstacle at the moment is that the hotel will likely issue a random room to whoever books their overpopulated rendezvous. My hope, my dear hope, is that the room is reserved in their absence, held under some discounted, long term plan, so that each person knows the room number to call on every time. This is a little uncommon, but I’ve seen it done by people who are especially wary of being caught by their spouse, unaware of the other complications it adds.
So, right now, I’m setting up a parabolic microphone on the roof of the building opposite the hotel, carefully aiming it down at the window. I use a tin box that I’ve shaped to look like an AC unit to hide it, screwing it into the brick with a compact cordless drill. I check the timer and the data card, before nodding to myself. It’s unlikely that the equipment will be found, but replacing it would definitely cripple my spending money for the future.
Once everything is secured, I climb down and start walking away, wondering what to do with the rest of the night. I need to stay up late enough that my sleep returns to its normal timing, but tomorrow is the off night, so a little leniency exists.
I am not very surprised when my first instinct tells me to go and watch him. Nothing new there. And yet, it makes my chest tighten to think about looking down into that apartment. After having been on the other side of the glass, going to the aquarium seems in poor taste.
I understand all of that, but why am I standing outside his door with a lockpick in my hand?
My hands are shaking. I have never, never, ever been so bold as to outright enter his space. Infiltrating people’s lives is nothing new to me, but this is so very, very wrong. I glance left and right. He is inside. Sleeping, certainly. Based on what I have observed, he will be so deep within his sleep that I could walk up and lick his face without waking him. Not that I’ve spent much time considering that scenario.
I am inside before I realize. High-alert does not begin to describe my state of mind, no: I am already ringing every alarm bell. I tiptoe into the kitchen and loom over the sink, staring at the drain. I want to pour myself in. I need to escape from here, even if it’s through the pipes. I don’t do anything so absurd, of course. Instead, I creep to the bedroom. Much more natural.
He is sleeping on his side, in a plain white t-shirt. A little moan of delight catches in my throat. Frankly, I think I’d be better off screaming, preferably running the other way.
I retreat, thankfully, to the kitchen. I ponder a steak knife left on the cutting board, contemplating tasting its edge for his dinner. Then I contemplate plunging it into myself to save him from whatever this nighttime raid has to offer. My hand is around the handle. I am staring at the keen edge with an intensity that really should be reserved for hand-eye coordination in baseball. I set it down.
I open the fridge. Milk, eggs, meat thawing for tomorrow’s dinner. Good, good, he’s eating well. Close fridge, open trash. A discarded yogurt cup. The dishwasher clunks, and I flee, out the door, locked behind me.
I come to my senses two blocks away. I’m holding the yogurt cup.
This is beyond wrong. My heart is racing, and not just because of my mad sprint. Maintaining any level of self control seems out the window.
I am licking the cup clean, my shame is nowhere to be seen here. The strange sighs and huffing sounds I make between glances around the alley are similarly distressing.
I need a plan, a method to contain myself. If I do not place some sort of measures in my way, I will again perform such an atrocity. I am sure of it.
It is too late for me to vanish. I cannot bring myself to perform such a wicked act, to ghost him. Instead, I must pace myself. Control is everything. Knowing when and where I will be exposed to him, and preparing adequately in advance.
I slink out of the alley, the cup discarded with my temporary insanity. I burn into my memory the still of myself standing in his kitchen, knife in hand, head full of impulses. This is the worst case scenario, the future I must avoid at all costs. Being in his life must not come at the cost of safety.
I stuff my shaking hands into my pockets and turn a corner. In front of me, the diner glows like a hole in the wall of life itself, a shimmering mirage. I take a step towards the strange oasis, before turning away and heading home. Enough revisiting memories.
Saturday. Time to live. I see Raphael early on, but the main event tonight is a movie. After hugging and bidding my friend goodnight, I hop down the sidewalk by the main road, skipping over cracks and manhole covers. My hair is in a long braid down my back, and bounces there with my pace.
I have carefully selected this movie from the showings, as the best choice according to both head and heart. No romance, no horror, no suspense. I walk up to the ticket counter and beam at the attendant before proclaiming:
“One ticket for Jack Breaker 2 please.”
Action movies are a guilty pleasure of mine. I mean no offense to their writers when I say that the lack of required investment is my favorite thing about them. You can just sit back, and the story will be told to you, without needing you to do any real puzzling or feeling around. The main reason to watch is violence, and maybe that hit of catharsis when the protagonist gets revenge, or rescues the victim, or otherwise brings justice to the scene.
I buy a small bucket of popcorn and a little bag of chocolate-covered ice-cream bites, and file into the theater, finding a seat near the back.
The movie is just as I hoped. It starts out with just the right amount of juxtaposition, and becomes a gritty bloodbath that treats lives like a score in a video game, so long as their owner was aligned with the villain. The ultimate scene is an adrenaline-choked chase followed by a shootout in a nondescript industrial building. Luck and skill are beyond human belief, but that’s not the point. The point is that moment when it was all worth it, and the main character experiences both vindication and relief.
And of course, another just like this will come out in two years time, promising greater stakes, without fail.
I exit the theater feeling refreshed and tranquil, reality temporarily under the surface of a dreamlike sheen of the world where everything works out perfectly. On this cloud of suspended disbelief, I float back to my apartment, and land in my bed.
Seeds of Fear 