Pitchblack
05-02-2011, 04:21 AM
Someone's been watching me. It's been like this for quite some time. The fist time I saw him, I was just a boy. I had woke up early with a metallic taste in my mouth. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I looked down and put a pea sized dollop of Crest on my toothbrush. When I looked up, there he was in the mirror. Black trench, black fedora, smooth face, empty eyes. He didn't scare me. I stood and studied his reflection. He wanted to tell me something, but I turned. That was the day my brother died.
Every time I see him I know not to turn, but I always do. It's like pulling your hand off a hot stove. No thought. Action, reaction. Why won't he stay awhile? I don't think that I'm bad company, yet we're not always the best judges of ourselves.
I get the sneaking suspicion that he's looking out for me. Like the time I walked downtown to the baseball card shop. I had been mowing lawns all summer, just so I could buy a Wade Boggs rookie card. When I finally saved enough money, I put on my battered Red Sox cap and headed down the street. It was mid September. The first week of school. Cool enough for jeans but still warm enough for a tee shirt. I stopped outside of the CVS because I saw Jake Saunders and his sister, Lynn, go inside. As I peered through the window, there he was behind me. His head was cocked to the side like a dog perceiving some high pitched tone only it can hear. He was definitely looking at me. His black boots had a trace of dust on them, like he'd just taken a stroll down a country road. I turned just in time to scramble out of the way as the brown Ford Pinto careened through the plate glass window.
Jake died on the way to the hospital.
Maybe he's my guardian angel. Weird thought huh? You usually imagine angels in white robes and gold halos. Mine wears all black. The anti Dick Tracey with a Tommy gun under his duster.
I wish he'd talk to me. Tell me how the people I haven't seen in awhile are doing, like my brother or Jake Saunders. He just stands there with those empty eyes. He cares though. I can sense it. There's a purpose, a duty. How will I ever know what it is if he always runs like a stray cat at a fireworks display every time I turn to make contact?
Every night I write in this journal, glancing up occasionally at my own reflection in the mirror; hoping to catch him off guard. As I look into the mirror I can visualize him. Same black hat, black coat, empty eyes.
Slowly, subtly, I start to turn.
With purpose.
Like him.
One hundred and eighty degrees and he's still here.
Constriction, left arm numb.
Where's the aspirin?
I know your purpose now!
Every time I see him I know not to turn, but I always do. It's like pulling your hand off a hot stove. No thought. Action, reaction. Why won't he stay awhile? I don't think that I'm bad company, yet we're not always the best judges of ourselves.
I get the sneaking suspicion that he's looking out for me. Like the time I walked downtown to the baseball card shop. I had been mowing lawns all summer, just so I could buy a Wade Boggs rookie card. When I finally saved enough money, I put on my battered Red Sox cap and headed down the street. It was mid September. The first week of school. Cool enough for jeans but still warm enough for a tee shirt. I stopped outside of the CVS because I saw Jake Saunders and his sister, Lynn, go inside. As I peered through the window, there he was behind me. His head was cocked to the side like a dog perceiving some high pitched tone only it can hear. He was definitely looking at me. His black boots had a trace of dust on them, like he'd just taken a stroll down a country road. I turned just in time to scramble out of the way as the brown Ford Pinto careened through the plate glass window.
Jake died on the way to the hospital.
Maybe he's my guardian angel. Weird thought huh? You usually imagine angels in white robes and gold halos. Mine wears all black. The anti Dick Tracey with a Tommy gun under his duster.
I wish he'd talk to me. Tell me how the people I haven't seen in awhile are doing, like my brother or Jake Saunders. He just stands there with those empty eyes. He cares though. I can sense it. There's a purpose, a duty. How will I ever know what it is if he always runs like a stray cat at a fireworks display every time I turn to make contact?
Every night I write in this journal, glancing up occasionally at my own reflection in the mirror; hoping to catch him off guard. As I look into the mirror I can visualize him. Same black hat, black coat, empty eyes.
Slowly, subtly, I start to turn.
With purpose.
Like him.
One hundred and eighty degrees and he's still here.
Constriction, left arm numb.
Where's the aspirin?
I know your purpose now!