I slam the car door shut with practiced force, just enough to get through the stubborn catch, but not enough to ring the car like a rusted church bell. Dropping the keys into my petite black everyday purse, I cross the parking lot to the grocery store. I keep my eyes open. Other people thread between the city cars, carrying plastic bags and watching me just as I watch them. Most look away when they notice I’m looking. What can I say? I’m told I’m a bit paranoid and that makes me look unfriendly.
I go inside and grab a plastic basket, carrying it in one hand. I need only a few items, so there’s not much point shoving a behemoth rolling cart around the store. With a brief glance over my shoulder, flipping my short black hair out of the way, I venture down the front aisle to the produce section. I examine an array of oranges, one at a time, surveying their vibrant, pocked skins with an experienced eye. At length I select three, setting them on the silver scale to check the weight.
I pause. I have this strange ghost of a feeling, as if I’m being observed—observed by something closer and more human than a surveillance camera. I scan the produce section and detect no one except a shrunken elderly woman determined to reach an onion three inches beyond her grasp.
Still somewhat unnerved, I proceed to the checkout, basket in hand, and purchase my oranges.
My tall, trim figure retreats in the video camera screen above the strict anti-shoplifting sign. I turn my attention forward, narrowing my eyes at a man coming from the opposite direction. He averts his gaze with the casual air of a disinterested stranger, but my anxiety finds no relief.
As I sweep through the lines of cars outside, I glance through every window. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I set my oranges on the dusty hood of my car, and look across the wilderness of vehicles. A flicker of movement darts into a shadow beyond my line of sight—or I might have imagined it.
I half expect to see eyes in the rearview mirror, but even when I do not, I cannot shake the feeling that someone’s gaze still rests upon me. I back the car out of the parking spot, my mind vibrating with unsettled thoughts. Who could be following me? And why?
Driving through a green light intersection, I change my mind and flip the turn signal. I pull into the lot in front of an old strip mall. Leaving my oranges to wait in the car for me, I hurry inside the knife shop. I keep glancing out the window as I wait for an employee to help me at the counter. Only the clouds and street traffic roll by, parallel to a woman with a stroller.
Once the employee arrives, I point to the cheapest good-looking switchblade in the case. He unlocks the glass doors and withdraws it. I glance surreptitiously around the shop, reaching into my purse for my wallet. I suspect the man behind the counter notices my tension, but he makes no comment, swiping my credit card and handing me both it and the knife in turn.
I know someone is watching me. I just don’t know who it is yet.
I drop the knife into my purse and return to the car, my steps hasty and nervous. Driving back to my apartment, I can’t stop thinking about it. This odd sensation, a chill whisper of presence behind me—always lurking in the direction opposite the one I look—haunts me.
I park in front of my apartment building, go inside, and take two flights of stairs. Suspicion rises. A guess flutters to the back of my mind. I trot up the last few steps and walk down the dim hallway, formulating a plan. I stop in front of a familiar wooden door marked 306. I insert my apartment key in the lock.
I reach inside my purse and take out the switchblade, sliding its thin barrel into my palm. My thumb hovers on the button to release the blade, an anxious touch as trusting as a caress. I know at long last that I will have my answer, that I will come face to face with this mystery. In a moment, I will confront my watcher. I open the door, and that’s when I see you.
Yes, you. I see you giving me that surprised, innocent look. But I know what you did and what you’re doing right now. I admit, for a while I didn’t have a clue, but now I can see. It was you all along. You’ve been spying on me. Following me everywhere, watching my every move, like I exist for your entertainment. I resent that. We’ve never even really met until now, but you thought you could peer into my life. Well, I’ve had enough.
I press the button, and the switchblade springs out, five inches of cold steel glittering.
Now I’m going to end it. You’re gonna get out of my life and away from my oranges right now.
2nd Place Winner of Denver Woman’s Press Club Fiction Short Story Contest 2010
Author’s Note
This story was inspired by a book on writing craft called Joy Writing by Kenn Amdahl, whom I had the privilege of meeting at a conference early in my writing career. A section of the book discussing point of view mentioned how the second person view (“you”) is rarely used. The idea of a story where the reader is addressed as “you” and suddenly becomes involved in the story came to mind, and I wrote this piece. Don’t worry, I’m not really paranoid, and I’m not out to get you. 🙂 My protagonist, on the other hand….
Photo credit: Alexandru Zdrobau from Unsplash
Well done! I enjoyed following you. 😉
Thank you! 🙂