Watching the snow fall outside the living room window, I couldn't help but feel that the entire world outside was some alternate space with an unstable gravity. One moment, the snow fell to the ground- the next, it floated back towards the sky as if we were underwater. It was calming, for a little while; just the snow spiraling in whichever direction the wind so pleased without a mind of its own. And while I knew it was just a wonder of my imagination; I could almost feel the gravity changing each second as my stomach twisted and churned jitteringly; as if I were trapped within a house in a snow globe, and someone was shaking it violently.
In fact, the scene was so picturesque that I could almost feel the air being replaced with thick glycerin; the air within my lungs slowly flowing with that choking viscousness which stiffened my limbs as if they were made out of ceramic. But, I found the glass window which separated me from the violence of the snow globe shaker to be both reassuring and scarring; because at once I was both safe, yet also entirely in someone else's hands- perfectly isolated. If I put it into better words, it was more like being some glittering fish or exotic reptile: resting in an exposing terrarium with no sense of privacy or freedom. Just sitting here, staring into my ghost-like reflection, under an invasive interest from a faceless 'other'.
I was looking out, but I knew that, somewhere, someone else was looking in... always.
That thought caused my spine to ache in a rotten mixture of terror and revulsion, but every once in awhile, I would still sit by the window to see if I could feel it; the itching, crawly feeling of someone's eyes following my every move.
And while I would wait- trying to dive into those unspoken senses people claim to have, my mind toyed with what it was that someone would find interesting enough to obsess over about me, what it was which warranted sending me hundreds of letters in the span of three months; each delicately and painstakingly handwritten.
In my adult mind I knew it was my stalker's fault for all these annoying emotions swirling behind my eyes- the wrath, anxiety, and fear which was fluctuating within me much like the snowflakes bending to the wind- my fickle feelings bending to his will. If I was being honest, that was the thing I hated most about this, and if I fooled myself well enough, I could instead pretend that what I hated were the things I could control...
Because... I was still in control, right?
Outside, the wind seemed to mute itself- almost mocking my ill-informed belief that at the end of the day, I wasn't really trapped inside of a snow globe; just like gravity can't really alternate directions at the drop of a snowflake, just like how he isn't in control of me.
Wincing, I told myself a multitudes of 'if's; if I stayed in college like my parents wanted, I wouldn't be here right now. If I had a better paying job, I could be living on my own somewhere far away from here. If I was smarter somehow- prettier and more durable- I could be doing so many things that would have saved me from the constant, weighing sense that I was being scrutinized under a harsh gaze- no, by everyone.
If all these things somehow happened, I told myself, I wouldn't be suffering like this.
I wouldn't be living with my parents like a deadbeat;
That at the least, I should be able to afford my own car instead of borrowing my mom's to drive myself to my shitty- well, what my ego called shitty- job.
And most of all, I wouldn't appear so disgustingly pathetic to my parents, because I wouldn't have an obsessive, delusional stalker.
For a moment, I let that thought echo around the recesses of my mind; my eyes still watching the small flakes of snow delicately descend to the ground, the world dusted in powder sugar. Where before my heart would shake in unease, now, I bitterly smiled, there was nothing left but annoyance. Rubbing my face, a frustrated laugh sifted through my grated jaw recalling what the police had told me a month ago; abhorred by the 'help' they had to offer.
"This person has only been sending you love letters to your doorstep. From our experience, unless the letters violently escalate, there's nothing we can do. We've written a report, but the best we can hope for is that they will eventually get bored and move on. Unless your life is at risk, there's not much we can do about a harmless prank like this."
Harmless prank- I repeated that word in my mind a few times before getting up from the couch and walking to the front door, the house dark since both my parents left early in the morning for work. Nothing sounded except for the soft padding of my feet as I walked down the hallway, somehow optimistically wishing as I always did that it really was a prank, and that this morning would be an exception to what was unfortunately becoming familiar.
Rolling up on the balls of my feet, I leveled my left eye with the peep hole and looked at the porch, holding my breath.
No footprints; but there it was- the red envelope resting amid the concrete of our condo's porch as if it had sprouted from the concrete like a delicate, soft-spoken rose. It looked almost as if it belonged there, like its image had somehow infiltrated the family and made itself a common accessory. Where-ever I was, not too far away would follow a red letter.
And...
Opening the door, a cold wind rushed inside chilling my legs as I quickly stepped out, picked up the letter, before closing and locking the door behind me.
Where-ever a red letter was, there was a pitifully and annoyingly curious me.
Padding downstairs, I retreated further in the warm darkness of the house to my room in the basement- the only room in the space I had which felt like it was free from his watch.
After the first two months of receiving letters, I personally cleared out half of my parent's unfinished basement and moved my bed and clothes there to feel... less on display. Where before, if I was my old self, I would retch at the thought of all the bugs, dust, and spiders in the basement, now I couldn't help but feel like it was the most comfortable place in the entire condo- no, the entire world.
If there are no windows, no one- especially not him- can see me. And twistedly, I found pride in that. I like to think that by retreating to the basement, maybe I was inflicting the same anxiety my stalker had brought down on me by vanishing from his sight with his precious letters; forever wondering what it was I do with them.
Did I read them? Did I throw them away?
It was a miniscule revenge I twistedly savored; one I wouldn't dare to ever admit out loud.
In moments like this, my fingers twitched with the thought that- even if I was in his ornate snow globe- at least his heart was tied by steel strings to my fingertips; that each time I left his sight, I was cutting through his veins as I pulled the cords tighter and tighter; that it was only fair that if I had to suffer, he had to too. Even that revenge felt half imagined and egotistical of me- that I believed he was so invested in me that just this little action would make it 'fair'...
To think that I was still childish enough to think that there was such a thing as 'fair', I let out a twisted sigh as I opened and closed the door to the unfinished basement.
Dark, private, and warm- just me and the pipes and vents upon the ceiling and the concrete floor beneath my feet. If I was here, my stomach could unwind itself and my emotions could level themselves as if all of this was a bad dream- and in some ways it was.
My daydreams of revenge, the musings of destruction; the incessant thoughts of victory and loss; even now I couldn't stop myself from thinking of the one-coin victories my stalker might be celebrating at this moment.
Was he proud I had touched his love letter? That, while it was only paper, I was touching the same thing he had touched- that I had let something of his creation into my home; that his words were close to me, even if I didn't read them? It was in that way that each of my actions felt like a desperate tug-and-pull between me and him.
Setting the letter on the floor, I sat next to it and leaned back against the side of my twin bed, exhausted.
I... liked to think I was smart. In the beginning, I simply ignored all of his letters. If I saw one on the porch, I would brush it to the side and let them pile up together like the trash they were. Due to that, however, the condo association complained to my parents- so then I threw them away in the trash.
But then, they would mysteriously find their way back to the porch even though I threw them away over and over- even if I threw them away inside or at random trashcans on my way to work.
It was at that point that I knew he was always watching me; always silently forcing me to at the very least pick them up, and take them inside without throwing them away. And worse, that he was going through my trash, taking who knows what. It was almost as if he knew, too, that I was an annoyingly curious and imaginative person. No- that I was a severely paranoid person. Though the letters were just mumbling, bumbling love letters for now, who is to say that this freak wouldn't say in a letter "later today, I'm going to follow you and kill you"- and if I never read it, I wouldn't know I'd be walking to my own grave? Or worse- if he threatened my parents?
That, however, was yet to happen. For all extents and purposes, my stalker seemed pretty mellow. All he ever wrote to me about were his annoying feelings towards me, or things which he wanted to do with me; among other fluffy, nearly middle-school-esque romantic delusions. In fact, the entire bit felt childishly fake. The red letters, my name written in an elaborate, elegant calligraphy followed by near Shakespearian love-sonnets and shitty poems about my beauty. But, it was for that reason that the police couldn't do much to help me, and for that reason that even my parent's concern for it slowly waned to annoyance- as if, somehow, I was in on the prank too.
It was with that mutilated sadness that even my parent didn't seem to care anymore, that I opened the most recent letter. On the front was my name, etched in its distinguished penmanship- the bottom curve of the 'C' branching out beneath the rest of the letters as if it were gently holding them up- as if it were catching them from falling down the paper and shattering upon the ground. Each time I saw how he wrote my name so... artistically, I couldn't help but feel that he was writing to someone else. Someone more fragile and elegant; someone who didn't exist, which was ironic since he was stalking me.
Maybe that was what made me especially bitter. For being a stalker, he seemed to be quite shitty at actually learning anything about me- and while it felt silly to be even thinking this- it felt like he was wasting my time. His letters felt like they were written to some imaginary girl who shared my face and name, but beyond that, everything he wrote to me felt so shallow and stupid.
"To my lovely dove Carmilla..." Reading the first, familiar line, I almost felt like gagging.
"It's a beautiful winter morning, and I find myself thinking of you as I always do. You have no idea just how much you save me everyday, just by existing- just by taking this paltry letter into your gorgeous hands."
Rubbing my cheek, I tried to wipe the disgusted expression off my face and to erase the growing frustration boiling in my stomach, but still, I pressed on.
"It's going to be Christmas soon, and I've been wondering what I should gift to you. You're like a haven to me- like a calming winter sunrise staining the whole world in soft pink and gold hues. It would be amazing if I could see you just once open my letters, but I understand it must be embarrassing. I probably wouldn't want anyone else to see me writing these floaty feelings down though, so I understand. If it has to do with you, I'll always understand. Still..."
My eyes felt like they glossed over as they skated past more soapy, saccharine expressions and musings of his adoration for me; his constant reassurances that he understands and accepts 'me' just as I am. If it were a few months ago, I'd feel bad for him. Clearly he wasn't all right in the head- there were definitely more than a few screws missing entirely; but now, all I felt was drained.
Sometimes, I wanted to write a letter back saying "You should find someone else who will love you back" or "Please stop writing me these letters" or "I hate you and your letters" among whatever thoughts I wanted to vent out, but if I did; the police, and my family, told me I would only be encouraging him, so I stopped myself.
Just wait until he gets bored, they said.
Just wait...
I took a deep, stumbling breath.
Until he gets bored.