If you choose links we provide, we may receive compensation.
I see nothing, and the sound fades, as all eventually do.
Perhaps it was never there at all.
Credit: HBO
I snap my attention back to the man at the counter.
Older man, salt-and-pepper beard, deep-green eyes, the color of jade.
Charcoal suit, no tie.
Sourcebooks Landmark
What would you like?
To drink here, hey.
His voice is deep.
Theres an endless longing to it, as if Im the ghost of someone he once loved.
This has happened before.
Can I get a name?
I ask, holding eye contact for only a moment.
He thinks on this for a moment, as if Ive asked a deeply personal question.
I write this on a sticker and place it on the lip of a ceramic cup.
When I give him his change, he looks only at my hands.
John takes his money and leaves my space as quickly as he entered it.
Sometimes I meet a person and my paranoia insists they already know me.
How many scars I have.
My real last name.
Its a game my mind likes to play when it thinks Im getting complacent, or cured.
I meet people every day at the Stone Rose, the coffee shop I own.
Customers rarely give me this feeling.
I take a deep breath, hold it to the count of four, then release.
TWO
Paranoia is also thereason I keep no knives in my house, which makes for practical concerns.
Spread it with a fork.
It sounds mad, I know.
If someone wanted to hurt me, they wouldnt need to use a knife.
On my dining room table alone are things that could maim or kill.
Fork in the eye.
Ceramic plate smashed over the skull.
Wineglass, broken to a fractured stem, sliced across the carotid artery.
Cloth napkin shoved down the throat, fingers used to pinch the nose shut.
You might even argue that if someone wanted to stab me, why would they bother relying onmyknife?
Surely they would bring their own.
Id tell you those are all reasonable points.
But I dont have to rationalize my horrors to you.
I pour another glass of merlot.
His name is Jesus, and hes never asked me why I make this request.
I plan on giving Jesus a nice tip at Christmastime.
I drop the fork, my appetite not reaching critical mass.
The wall clock reads just past eight, and my stomach tightens at the thought of the coming night.
Sometimes I wish it would.
Dinner over, dishes done.
I straighten a picture on my wall that probably isnt even crooked.
A photo I took of London a decade and a half ago.
I was with my father that evening, just after hed given me that camera for my birthday.
It was the first photo Id taken with it.
But mostly I try not to think of the place I grew up.
I almost died there when I was fourteen.
Beams from car lights sweep along my windows, temporarily highlighting my living room wall like prison searchlights.
Richard must not be working the overnight shift at the hospital tonight.
He rents the room on the third floor, above my bedroom.
I call it the Perch.
Well, perhaps not safe, but in some way less panicked.
Knowing hes up there makes me feel less alone, I suppose.
Hes quiet as a cat.
Never even a dribble of music, a foot stomp, or a squeaking bed.
Teeth brushed, flossed, gleaming to perfection.
Pajamas of the flannel variety, which hang loosely around my thin frame.
Ill eat more tomorrow.
I like what Ive become on the outside.
But I wasnt stabbed during the day.
I was stabbed late on a half-moon night, a few days before Halloween.
So I suppose all this wondering doesnt really matter for anything.
Grab my phone, which someone who has trouble sleeping shouldnt do.
But my sleep issues go beyond my brains reaction to a little glowing screen.
Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram.
Two-second glances at unrestrained propaganda.
The trium- phant struggles of supermoms.
The photos of the perfect kids, the great vacations, the most exhaustive meals.
It all makes me so sad, mostly because I dont believe any of it.
But I also realize a lot of this is me, my cynicism.
I rarely post, but often lurk.
An email from my brother, Thomas.
Its good to see his name in my inbox, the last name I used to have.
Thomas is bitch- ing about Mom.
This doesnt surprise me.
She doesnt know about my past.
She doesnt know the name Alice Hill, only Alice Gray.
But I did sign up, checked it for about a week, then lost most of my interest.
I dont know what Im hoping for.
Now I scroll through a months worth of matches, swiping them away like mosquitoes.
But the last one freezes my fingertip in mid-rejection.
I stare at the screen name, the man some algorithm has determined me to be compatible with.
Perhaps he would recognize me from my profile photo, though I dont know how.
Ive changed so much since I was fourteen.
Still, his screen name glows at me, seeming to pulse like a heart- beat on the screen.
I whisper it aloud just to convince myself its real.
Copyright 2018 by Carter Wilson.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
