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Story Critique / See?
« on: 01:53 PM, 01/14/18 »
You know that feeling of being watched, right? I think everyone does. Or, at least, I hope everyone does. I've gotten conflicting opinions from "professionals" about whether the kinds of thoughts I have are "normal". I say, "Everyone has these thoughts, right?" The answer sends the brain-train chugging down the tracks. But back to the feeling of being watched. It's a feeling I've had most of my life. Hindsight being 20/20, it should have been one of the first red flags to sprout from my curly red head screaming, "help, I'm scared of everything!"
When I was 5, my parents tried to take me to a restaurant in the next town. I couldn't tell you what it was called; Captain's Table? Fisherman's Table? Every time we drove past the place I screwed my eyes shut to avoid the dead, pale, ever-watchful gaze of that massive cardboard mariner in the fading yellow rain gear. I screamed and sobbed and dug my shoes into the gravel as Mom dragged me towards that watcher's lair.
"You're going in," she insisted.
"She's going back," said Dad with my sister in his arms, bringing the miraculous news that the restaurant was too full to bother.
But that's not super weird, you know? Kids get scared of big dumb billboards and stuff. I could tell you about, like, 4 more right now. The fat owly troll at the winery, that cloudy-eyed salmon of the Coho motel ad coming into town and his properly-pupiled counterpart on Highway 42… Big scary cartoony kid stuff, watching, seeing me. I know better now, of course, but I'm trying to show you. You know what it's like.
Those signs were really there, and some of them are still there, but as I got older there were a lot of things that weren't there. And I knew they weren't there, nobody had to tell me that. But I could see them, and they could see me, and I could see them seeing me, and it would freeze me to the spot. Or send me in a breathless power-walk back to my room with my hands to my face like a horse's blinders. It depended on where and when, but you know how that goes.
At night I would get up to use the bathroom. No issues on the way there. But opening the door to leave, I'd always see it, without fail, my made-up lobster-monster. It's 6 feet tall and pale peachy pink with a bulbous head, bent, face in my face, with its big bug-eyes and impossible grin. And every time, I put up the blinders and zipped down the hall, through the kitchen, down the stairs, and back into bed. Silly, right? I got used to it though. Didn't you?
The one I never got used to was being 9 or 10 or 11, alone in my room, radio pumping the hits of the 80's and 90's at a moderate volume, and I wanted to dance so bad. I wanted to run around and flail my arms and shut my eyes and rock. But I could feel them watching. Those 3 "popular" girls from our small class of 18. Short, blonde Danielle, her brunette "bff" Andrea, and wide-faced Marissa, or at least my brain's projection of them. Always just out of sight out the western window, smiling, laughing, and judging more than the real girls ever would. (They were always nice to me, really.)
So through every favorite song, my butt was planted to the bed, feet rooted to the floor, my eyes were fixed on the swirling cotton candy pink of the south wall, letting the music happen. Even I will admit that's pretty ridiculous, but I'm a grown woman now. I've learned to "dance like no one is watching."
But, like, I get it. These feelings are just a part of me. When I have them now, they're small and like old friends checking up on me. I'm telling you, I've got this down, all figured out.
So that's how I know this is the real deal. Yes, I'm sure. And it's not just me. He's watching you too. See? Here, there he is, Tuesday, two tables away from you at the food court in front of the Qdoba. And here, up the slope from that basement window that looks into your office. You wouldn't see anyone from that angle. And look, the look on your back door is busted or something, you can see it right there. It opens so easily, you need to get that fixed. I'm telling you all this because you're my friend, and I don't want to see you get hurt.
Don't worry too much. I'm watching out for you, I promise. Still, be careful, okay?
When I was 5, my parents tried to take me to a restaurant in the next town. I couldn't tell you what it was called; Captain's Table? Fisherman's Table? Every time we drove past the place I screwed my eyes shut to avoid the dead, pale, ever-watchful gaze of that massive cardboard mariner in the fading yellow rain gear. I screamed and sobbed and dug my shoes into the gravel as Mom dragged me towards that watcher's lair.
"You're going in," she insisted.
"She's going back," said Dad with my sister in his arms, bringing the miraculous news that the restaurant was too full to bother.
But that's not super weird, you know? Kids get scared of big dumb billboards and stuff. I could tell you about, like, 4 more right now. The fat owly troll at the winery, that cloudy-eyed salmon of the Coho motel ad coming into town and his properly-pupiled counterpart on Highway 42… Big scary cartoony kid stuff, watching, seeing me. I know better now, of course, but I'm trying to show you. You know what it's like.
Those signs were really there, and some of them are still there, but as I got older there were a lot of things that weren't there. And I knew they weren't there, nobody had to tell me that. But I could see them, and they could see me, and I could see them seeing me, and it would freeze me to the spot. Or send me in a breathless power-walk back to my room with my hands to my face like a horse's blinders. It depended on where and when, but you know how that goes.
At night I would get up to use the bathroom. No issues on the way there. But opening the door to leave, I'd always see it, without fail, my made-up lobster-monster. It's 6 feet tall and pale peachy pink with a bulbous head, bent, face in my face, with its big bug-eyes and impossible grin. And every time, I put up the blinders and zipped down the hall, through the kitchen, down the stairs, and back into bed. Silly, right? I got used to it though. Didn't you?
The one I never got used to was being 9 or 10 or 11, alone in my room, radio pumping the hits of the 80's and 90's at a moderate volume, and I wanted to dance so bad. I wanted to run around and flail my arms and shut my eyes and rock. But I could feel them watching. Those 3 "popular" girls from our small class of 18. Short, blonde Danielle, her brunette "bff" Andrea, and wide-faced Marissa, or at least my brain's projection of them. Always just out of sight out the western window, smiling, laughing, and judging more than the real girls ever would. (They were always nice to me, really.)
So through every favorite song, my butt was planted to the bed, feet rooted to the floor, my eyes were fixed on the swirling cotton candy pink of the south wall, letting the music happen. Even I will admit that's pretty ridiculous, but I'm a grown woman now. I've learned to "dance like no one is watching."
But, like, I get it. These feelings are just a part of me. When I have them now, they're small and like old friends checking up on me. I'm telling you, I've got this down, all figured out.
So that's how I know this is the real deal. Yes, I'm sure. And it's not just me. He's watching you too. See? Here, there he is, Tuesday, two tables away from you at the food court in front of the Qdoba. And here, up the slope from that basement window that looks into your office. You wouldn't see anyone from that angle. And look, the look on your back door is busted or something, you can see it right there. It opens so easily, you need to get that fixed. I'm telling you all this because you're my friend, and I don't want to see you get hurt.
Don't worry too much. I'm watching out for you, I promise. Still, be careful, okay?
