The Watcher

38

I wake up and look at the clock. It says it’s just after five, and I’m still lying on my back, looking at the ceiling and trying to decide whether it’s morning or evening. I can’t decide. All I can determine is that it doesn’t matter. A dull tone cuts through the silence. There’s something familiar about the sound, I think, and I turn my head from one side to the other. The muscles in my neck and shoulders are as tense as springs. Then I hear the sound again and realize that it’s the doorbell.

This time the person outside doesn’t give up. The doorbell rings multiple times, alternating between short and long chiming. I roll onto my side and feel the bed sag under my weight. The sheet is gray and dirty, and when I look down I see a rust-red spot on the material, the size of a coin. Dried blood on my calf just above my right foot suggests that I scratched the skin there until it bled.

Finally the doorbell stops. I lift my face to listen properly. A strand of saliva remains, running from my chin to the mattress. Then the knocking starts, although “knocking” is the wrong word. “Pounding” is more like it. A series of persistent bangs on the door out there and then, after a while, the doorbell again. I moan and cover my ears, but that doesn’t help. I roll out of bed and stagger out of the bedroom, down the stairs, to the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

It isn’t until after I’ve flung the door wide open and am staring into Leo’s wide eyes that I realize I should have looked at myself in a mirror on my way here.

“Whoa!” he gasps. And then, “So how are you doing, really?”

I run my tongue over my teeth, feel the residue of a coating there. My scalp itches, and I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair. When I cast a quick glance down, I discover the white, sticky splotches on my T-shirt. At some point I must have eaten yogurt or ice cream. I should probably be embarrassed at answering the door in my pajama pants, but the way things stand right now, I’m mostly grateful to be wearing pants at all.

I bring my hand up to my forehead and rub the bridge of my nose. Say something, then! You see how he’s looking at you, right? For crying out loud, say something.

“I’ve… been a little under the weather.”

Leo raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“A little? I haven’t seen you for several days, not since before the weekend. You closed your blinds. You haven’t opened the door no matter how much I’ve rung the doorbell. I thought you were dead in there.”

Leo stares at me for a bit, as if he’s waiting for an apology or an explanation, but when I don’t respond, he changes his strategy, seems to decide to pretend like it’s nothing, as if everything is normal. He brushes aside his bangs and his eyes wander a little.

“That essay of mine for school, you know, the one you read? There’s one thing I wanted to—”

“Leo,” I say, my voice sounding harsh. “I look like a wreck and feel even worse. If you would excuse me—”

I reach for the handle, but he puts his hand on the door to block it, preventing me from closing it.

“OK, never mind. That’s not why I’m here.”

We look each other in the eyes. I wait.

“It’s about my mother.”

I’m not up to this, can’t do it anymore, won’t. Even though he’s still standing in front of me, it’s as if Leo glides farther and farther away, although it’s not him who’s moving, it’s me. I fall back into myself.

“Go home, Leo. Go home to your mother and father. You’d do best to steer clear of me.”

Before he has a chance to react, I lift his hand away and quickly shut the door. I lock it, too, to be sure. But he’s still out there, yelling through the door.

“She’s busy packing some bags, kind of in secret, as if she’s thinking of leaving and, like, abandoning us.”

I head toward the stairs.

He knocks on the door another few times, but I don’t turn back. Is he pulling on the door handle, too, or am I imagining that? The din inside my head is so loud that I can’t be sure.

“Go home, Leo,” I mutter even though I know he can’t hear me.

And then I’m back in my bedroom again. My computer is waiting for me on the bed, silent and terrifyingly irresistible. I get settled, take a few deep breaths, and put my fingers on the keys. And then I write, write about what I’ve known would happen all along, write the end of the story.