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Am I really being stalked, or is this a fucked-up coincidence? Why aren’t the police making a bigger deal out of it?
I’m alone.
“I need to work. Keep busy.” Because there’s no way I’ll go to sleep anytime soon. The what ifs will keep me from doing so. “Work. Set up and work.”
Turning away from my door, I walk to my studio and turn on the lights. Everything’s where I left it, with a painting still on the easel and each color I’ll need on the small table next to it. However, my water cups for dirty brushes are empty, and before I fill them, I decide to open the window.
It’s warm in here. A bit stuffy, and I don’t hesitate to spread the curtains apart and lift the pane. And it’s as I do, that I look across the yard and find two glowing sets of eyes.
They watch me. Unblinking.
And the last thing I remember is feeling faint and tripping in my haste to move, hitting my head on something hard.
It’s early morning when I come to and I’m still on the floor, my head pounding. It hurts so bad, and the position I’m in has left me with a sore neck. But it’s worse when I stand. Jesus, it’s so much worse, and my limbs—my entire frame—is jittery and unbalanced. There’s also a tender spot near my temporal bone and when I touch it, I find dry blood there with a small gash beneath.
“What the hell happened?” My eyes sweep the room, and I find nothing out of place but the small wooden stepping stool that I use to reach the top of my supply closet. It’s not in its usual place and I don’t remember leaving it here, but it’s obvious that I fell and hit my... “Oh shit!”
Turning, I rush to the still-open window with the sun barely lighting up the early morning sky and search the yard for those two sets of eyes. For anything that proves I’m not crazy. That I haven’t lost my mind within the carnival show my life has become.
Nothing. There’s nothing.
No animal within the foliage, but I know what I saw and they were not human eyes.
Could it be the snake? An owl, maybe?
“If I call this in, it could blow up in my face.” Like with the picture. Rubbing my sore forehead, I wince, but it helps alleviate a little of the mounting pressure. This is going to take more than a few ibuprofens to get through the day. “Coffee. Lots of coffee and pain meds.”
My reality and dreams and everything in between are a blur of crazy moments that are weighing heavy on me, and I miss Theo. Miss his smile and scent and the ease in which I forget the world around me when he’s near.
I close the window and survey the back once again, finding nothing, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s easier to chalk this up to I hit my head and dreamed of eyes than the alternative. It’s probable, not far-fetched, and I’ll stick to it unless proven otherwise.
“Sounds good to me.” With my plan in place, I head to my room and closet to change. If I leave now, I can be back within the hour and pick up where I never began yesterday: painting. More so because I’m not trying to attract attention and slip into a large pair of overalls with a navy and white striped V-neck underneath.
There’s a little cafe near here that I visit every once in a while, with an amazing bagel selection that has my name all over it. That, and I’m going to need a triple shot of everything with a side of more caffeine to get through this headache.
The cut isn’t large when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror a few minutes later, dabbing at the area with a wet towel. It’s about an inch long and won’t require stitches, so small that a Band-Aid does the trick after I arrange my mass of bed-head hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. You can barely see it, the area not as swollen or bruised as I originally thought it’d be, and my fair complexion helps.
“Not bad at all.” With one last look after brushing my teeth, I head downstairs and out the door. It’s a good and sunny morning for a walk, and I could use a bit of time to clear my head because something inside me knows those eyes were real.
That I’m not crazy.
“That’ll be...” I don’t hear the rest as I’m paying attention to the person beside me. She smells of too much perfume and looks better than she did the last time we spoke, but still reeks of a bitterness that burns my nostrils. Is that really coming from her? The scent is a bit nauseating, but I manage to hand over my debit card to the employee with a smile on my face. “Your order will be ready in a few minutes, Miss. Under what name?”
“Gabriella,” Elise answers for me, her body moving a little closer. “Her name is Gabriella.”
“I can answer for myself,” I say, a fake smile on my face. Can I please catch a break here? Moving toward the pickup area, I stop behind an older couple who are too busy looking at some photo on the woman’s phone. Grandkids, I think. “Go away.”
“We need to talk.” There’s an urgency to her tone that puts me on edge. She’s not looking at me, but up ahead while holding her phone tight in her grip. “Now.”
“No.”
“This isn’t a request, Gabby. I’ve had enough of your shit.”
“Of my shit?” Her audacity makes me laugh, a loud sarcastic one that catches the attention of the couple and a few other people around us. “You’re still the same self-absorbed bitch you’ve always been, Elise. It’s always someone else’s mistake. Always someone else’s responsibility for your happiness and worth.”
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
“I just don’t care anymore.” The couple grabs their order and after giving us another side look, they walk out, leaving me at the front. “Nothing you say will make a difference in how I see you. We’re done.”
