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No! Stop!
The panic jolts me awake. Rubbing my palms against my eyes, I realize it's four in the morning. Going back to sleep is not an option.
Preparation for my second interview is underway. They’ll probably be knocking on my door any minute now. Hot water pours over me. The pressure is a bit harsh, but I’ll take it over the leak I had in my old apartment. Although I'm not fond of coffee, today I opt for it due to fatigue. Tea doesn't jolt my nerves like coffee does.
Sure enough, I have an eager journalist and her accompanying cameraman at my door around eight. Guiding her around, extending an offer for a drink, and addressing some questions that no one else would ever hear, I'm convinced this video will garner a few views and then fade into obscurity amidst the hundreds of more captivating individuals they've interviewed. It's over pretty fast. And I flop back onto my bed, ready to sleep.
***
Waking up as a micro-celebrity isn’t part of today’s schedule. In a few short hours, my name is trending as a hashtag. My social media accounts have gained thousands of followers, and articles are posted about the “eccentric” artist hired by Evan Blackburn. Commission requests are beginning to flood my DMs.
“Fuck,” I quibble, shooting up from my bed. There haven’t been any pictures of my face without sunglasses, but that could change. I pace around my house, closing every window and blind, and
hide under the comfort of my covers. A thought interrupts me while scrolling through posts and images, flicking away new notifications, and reading every comment.
Am I paranoid?I could be. But I'm not. Too often, he’s found me. He always finds me.
“I told him I didn’t want to do the interview!” My fingers tangle in my hair, and my nails dig into my scalp. My lungs struggle to bring in air, and the trembling of my overheating body restricts my airflow more.
“Fine, I’m fine,” I never can detect if saying so works or if I am delusional.
The day ends with me still tucked under my blanket, a scared, inconsolable child. I wish the rest of the day were only a bad dream I’d wake up from any moment now.
“Any moment.” That moment never comes. And so I never leave my blanket.
Days pile up, and so do I.
Getting up is reserved for bathroom trips and for drinking water. Eating is out of the question as my body rejects it. I give up on the idea altogether. On the second day, I toss my phone across the room and let it die, unwilling to take the risk of him eavesdropping through it. Or worse, finding my location.
It's impossible for me to predict when this ordeal will conclude. A whole week has passed, and I can only hope that the world has already moved on and forgotten about me. Maybe rumors of my disappearance or death would be preferable. You'd think several days of waiting at my door would tire anyone out. My body aches from being bedridden. Eventhough I'm getting sick of this game, my mind is playing on me. If he found me, he would be here by now.
Still, I don’t budge. If only I were this committed to anything else. Peeking out from beneath my blanket, I notice that it's nighttime.
“Okay, come on,” I try to encourage myself. I lift myself off the bed, blanket wrapped around me, bones popping into place. The only light I allow myself to turn on is the bathroom light; all the others are visible by the window. My stomach growls as I'm in and out of consciousness, as it has been doing all week. The gnawing hunger becomes too much to ignore, and I realize I need to eat.Sigh.
The food in the fridge is spoiled, and I don’t feel like cooking. Ordering food is an option but requires turning on my phone. Considering it's not charged, I hesitate to use the charger, unwilling to risk revealing my location. There's a food joint only a three-minute walk away. Fresh air would be enjoyable. It’ll be quick.
No one will know it's me. My face needs obscuring. My closet only consists of bland, boring, everyday clothes, with a few trendy ones I’ll probably never touch again unless I donate them. Sighing in frustration, I sift through the disorganized mess of boxes I haven't unpacked yet, berating myself for my laziness. As I start to lose hope and nearly abandon the entire idea, I stumble upon a couple of items that I have to convince myself will suffice. Draped in a thick scarf, sporting tinted shades, and enveloped by an oversized jacket, I prepare to venture out.
This has to work.
“Come on…let’s go!” as I try to hype myself up, but my feet end up sticking to the floor, “Last attempt,” I whine. My stomach growls. I take in a deep breath, throw open the door, and jog down the stairs of my apartment. Regret already pools in my stomach, or maybe it's my hunger, but I can't stand the pain of being in public. In the bustling crowds of New York, I had anticipated feeling concealed and blending in, but instead, it seemed to amplify the number of eyes glancing in my direction, searching for me. Striving to remain hidden, I embrace the assembled 'disguise.
Entering the mostly empty restaurant, I order the first item I spot on the menu. Anything that can satisfy my hunger will suffice. However, they take a long time to prepare the meal. The thought of returning upstairs and possibly abandoning the food crosses my mind, but I decide to stay, as I've already made the journey down.
Ding!
“Appreciate it,” I express, snatching the food from the counter. Power walking down the Manhattan streets is like walking down a crowded high school hallway.
Come on. Come on!
The door slams harder than I meant to close it, but I can’t bring myself to care as I slide down the door. There. Food in hand, I return to my bed and dig in. Within minutes, it's all gone. My goodness, I must have been really hungry. My blankets envelop me again.
Safety.
***
The phase passes after a couple of more days. Back to my routine, I'm out and about handling commissions, tidying up, and picking up groceries. Each time I fear I'll be recognized in public, but their attention is fleeting. Responding to a wave or perhaps a compliment is the extent of my interactions, then we all carry on with our respective days. My best interactions come through my DMs. A positive message and portrait requests aren’t rare occurrences. Of course, the typical weirdo comes rolling through, but eventhey'refun to talk to.
