Page 3 of Letters From A Stalker

“Don’t stare.” I hear Tessa snap.

Not loudly, she knows not to draw more attention than necessary, but with enough venom that the air around us tightens in time with my lungs.

“Go back to reading your book.”

I can’t fucking breathe.

I should be embarrassed. I am fucking embarrassed. It flares humiliatingly and insistently underneath the panic, but I can’t do anything about it because my lungs are fighting every desperate breath I try to take. Tiny scraps of air drag in through my nose but go nowhere. My heart beats too fast, my body is shaking and my skin is damp from holding in the screams.

The song is equally relentless as my panic attack. He sang this part badly too. Alive.

I bite down harder attempting to still the panic with pain, something solid, something I can focus on, something... tangible.

Tessa’s hand lands on my knee, pressing against it as if grounding me. I lean towards her, my forehead hits her back and I fold because there is nowhere else to go. Her sweater smells of sleep and her favorite fabric softener, and that nearly destroys me.

Her head turns to the side, towards me. “Breathe with me.”

I shake my head against her back.

“Don’t argue with me right now, Julia. I swear to fucking Christ.” She hisses but not in anger. Never in anger.

A broken, choking sound slips out of me, almost a laugh, almost a sob, ruined before it becomes either.

I can feel her upper body shift, she’s turning more to me now.

“In,” even her voice sounds less distant. She’s breathing loud enough for me to hear her. “Come on, just follow my lead. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

I try, I honestly do, but I can’t do it at all.

The bus is too small, the windows too dark, and the music feels like it's burning through my veins and sinking into my bones - spreading like poison, like the kind found in the depths of Hell where you put memories that you can't deal with now but know you have to, the ones like the single sock found in the depths of a drawer, long forgotten... until it's not.

I try to pull air but it just digs the invisible knife in my lungs further in. I try again and my father’s voice sounds louder. Try again and I’m back in that span of fifteen days, working with my phone beside the keyboard, answering emails and managing phone calls with clients, all the while imagining every ditch, every road, every possible location he could be.

Fifteen days of people calling me, leaving clues.

Fifteen days of being practical and on top of things because someone had to be.

Then the police. The DNA sample. The flower arrangements. The funeral home asking questions about what kind of music he would want, what suit he should wear, what words belonged to a man who spent the last decade pretending I never existed.

My teeth finally break through skin and Tessa zones in immediately.

“Baby, no.” She whispered like she’s soothing a wild mare. “Let go. We’re not doing that.”

I don’t. Not right away because if I open my mouth, the sound inside me will burst out and I won’t be able to take it back.

The bus slows, voices blur and I can hear Tessa talking to someone, maybe the driver. Her voice is sharp and determined, her one hand still holding onto me as if it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart just on sheer force of will.

I catch fragments of what she’s saying. Pull over. Now, please. She can’t breathe. She needs air. Then the rain suddenly sounds louder against the metal and the music stops. Doors open with a muffled hiss and cold night air rushes inside.

It should help. It doesn’t. Because my body is still back there, trapped in the note, still standing between the grave and a birthday cake that never had a chance.

“Come on,” Tessa says. “Up, I’ve got you.”

My body moves on autopilot because I don’t remember standing. I remember her hand under my elbow and her leading me down the aisle towards the exit. I remember my knees nearly giving out because the distance felt impossibly long. And all that time I kept my eyes glued to the floor because if I looked at anyone’s face, I knew I would see pity. And pity was the last thing I wanted to see right now.

Once we were finally outside, in the rain, Tessa guided me to the side of the gas station, away from prying eyes. I lean against the cold concrete wall, then bend forward with my hands on my knees. I drag air into my lungs like I have been buried underground and somehow the comparison feels like a perfect pun.

Tessa stands in front of me, one hand rubbing circles on my back, the other holding the coat around me even though I know she must be freezing.