And so the world did- in fact, it spun so much I felt dizzy. In the impending hope of what was Christmas, I made even more of an effort to appear less disturbed to my parents- even if that meant showering more often or forcing my stiff face to smile more; all while pretending I didn't know I was being watched- no, that I didn't care.
I did though, I cared so much that the only place I could afford to break down anymore was my car after work, my simple route of home, to work now obscured by home, to work, and to a nearby park before returning home again. It was a strange sort of payoff, because while I didn't want him to see me crying in my car so pathetically, I also didn't want my parents to hear my sobs slithering from the basement through the floorboards upstairs- and that was the one which gained priority in my mind.
Whether it was pride, ego, stubbornness, or all three- I couldn't bear much longer of seeing my mother's bored expression at my struggles. If I pretended everything was alright, she would at least spare me from the disappointment and annoyance which often lingered in her gaze, and it was in that endeavor that I found myself helping around the house more in an last-effort attempt to show that I wasn't leeching off her kindness like she had said. And ironically, I felt better.
If I put all my effort into cleaning, there was less room for my imagination to run wild with things, which with each letter felt less and less possible.
"He's just a pitiful, delusional person," I had convinced myself. "Just a random nobody who was yearning to feel 'seen'-"
Those conclusions, stupidly enough, bloomed overnight just like his letters did- especially since our game of tug and pull had seemed to have found a tolerable middle ground.
If I read the letters outside and threw them away, they wouldn't reappear back on my porch- they would peacefully disappear just like I had wanted them to. Even Crow- no, he- felt satisfied with this, it seemed; the letters soon being accompanied by little gifts which I took inside to be tossed into the bin in my room a much preferred trade. That was, until today.
Wrapped in my coat, I knelt down and picked up the letter before peeling it open, the flap fluttering like a cardinals wing as I took out the note and began reading it, perhaps too animatedly, as if to make sure he knew I really was reading it, and not pretending.
"Dear Dove,
I can't describe the joy it brings me to see your reading my heartfelt letters, though I wish I saw you using the gifts I give you too."
Fighting back the urge to roll my eyes, I couldn't help but feel he was always reaching for the next thing and could never be content. Still, his whining wouldn't convince me to cater to his whims anymore than this.
"But, I know you are a shy person- though I can't possibly understand why. You were put on this earth to be loved, and I can't imagine a single person in this world ever hating you. Though, even if you are loved by everyone, I want to daringly decree that no one's love will ever succeed mine- it burns for you, Dove. It aches for you so tenderly; waltzing in-between the notes of love songs and lingering in the lines of everything I see and touch. If I was a butterfly, I would sing to you that your name is a golden bell hung in my heart. With each growing day, I fight with the desire to break my body to pieces to call you once by your name, and for you to hear me utter it; for my voice to flutter to your ears.
And I, a faithful butterfly, could tell you these things because you are all which is sacred in this world- more elusive and alluring than angels or unicorns; than a siren's tempting melody or a fairy's glowing wings."
Woof. He's extra sappy today, I found myself chuckling quietly before covering my mouth as my tongue became as heavy as lead.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I harshly swallowed the spit in my throat and bit my tongue harshly- the pain returning me to my sanity.
He's not your friend, Carmilla- and don't you forget it. This is all just smokes and screens from a crazy person.
Begrudgingly returning my eyes to the letter, I read through the rest of his sappy declarations before reaching the end, my eyes almost tired.
"P.S. Since I can't see you using the gifts I give you, I can only assume it's because they do not suit your taste- so today, I've included your gift inside the envelope. I'm curious to see how you use it.
Forever yours,
Crow"
Nervous, my fingers returned to the inside of the envelope before pausing as it brushed against something gently taped to the inner side of the envelope paper. Peeling it off, my mind blanked as I stared at his newest 'gift'.
For a moment, I didn't dare move before my nail casually counted the amount once, then twice- until I had counted the same amount 10 times, entirely conflicted.
$600.00 comfortably rested in my hand- casually, as if it were no big number- the winter weather suddenly melting. How did he get his hands on six hundred dollars? And better yet, why was he giving it to me?
As if in a trance, I stood on the porch staring at the unwavering amount in my hand- half wondering if I was imagining it.
***
After that day, perhaps because he had misread my shock for excitement, his letters were often accompanied by money- the most generous amount in one letter being nine hundred dollars, still accompanied with little gifts every now and then. I still hadn't decided what to do with that money, however, so like the rest of his gifts, it found itself sitting in the storage bin in my room, though not without my own reluctance.
Part of me wanted to keep and spend it. Especially if I was going back to school, I would need money for my textbooks and groceries- but spending the money felt like a beautifully designed trap, perhaps especially because each one hundred dollar bill was crisp and uncreased, as if it were freshly printed.
Though I had been fighting so well against it, now when I went to bed, I found myself lying awake and staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was laundered money- yet, when I held it up to a bright light and tried to google a way to determine the difference, it appeared to be real: down to the very smell, the texture, the size, the watermark, and security thread. Some nights, I wondered if it was drug money- or some other, more sinister payout which he was carelessly placing into my hands after doing who knows what; my curiosity peaking.
Even though the letters had now increased in frequency once more, I almost felt bad for his deepening delusions, but those thoughts were quickly muted by the new habits I had found engrained in myself; my body mindlessly walking to the front door and peeking through the hole for a letter more and more often before I would jerk myself awake and return to my room, embarrassed.
It was when my father pointed it out one weekend morning that the delicately laid trap was finally revealed to me- that this ploy was another round in our ever-constant game.
Before now, I had never really thought of my stalker- but rather, about him. For the past three months, I had been solely focused on how his actions affected me: whether he was always watching me, whether he would break in one night and murder me- things which all circled back to me in the end.
But now, I was curious.
What was it that he does for a living that makes him feel like he can throw so much money at me? Is he really always watching, or does he have a job? Are there perhaps cameras watching me, and that is how he knows whether or not I throw his letters away- all the while he is living his life crisply and effortless in two places at once?
Is my existence as easy as a phone screen and a few taps away for him?
It was with those thoughts that I began searching for cameras in and outside of the house when my parents were gone; trying to convince myself that I my concern was justified, but in the end, there were none- frustratingly-
No. Thankfully, so.
So, perhaps it was by his design, the paranoid part of myself decided, that I was living a double life too.
To my parents, I was an improving case working to get better, but without them around, I could feel myself consciously sinking deeper and deeper- as if I was being swallowed up my Crow's- no, his- dramatic, heavy words and taxing gifts. Were we really equally wounding each other as I often tried to convince myself we were? Little by little, wasn't I the only one caving in to his demands- while getting nothing actual in return?
The bin full of chocolates, jewelry, and money protested against that thought, but I didn't mean in the material sense. It was in that way that this exchange was growing more and more unbalanced- more and more unhinged.
I want him to stop. I want him to leave me so I can have my head free of any trace of him, but instead, he gives me material counterfeits.
He wants me...
My mouth tilted slightly. What was it he even wants, exactly?
If I destroyed his delusion of me by reaching out, maybe his fantasy would break and he would finally be bored of me- but I knew that it was a deluded thought which would only make things worse.
Just wait until he gets bored- the words rung in my head, but it seemed less and less likely to occur.
Whatever it is he wants; all he gets is my apathetic tolerance- my vain indifference, all while his efforts wilt at his feet.
Are those two exchanges really equally painful?
Hugging my blankets around me tighter, my eyes which I had tightly squinted shut to sleep found themselves staring at the storage bin, almost as if my pupils were the needle of a compass and the bin was due-North. I bit my lips, but calmed myself with the relief that it would be Christmas Eve tomorrow- and I would be able to busy myself with more things around the house to ever mull over pointless things like I was now.
Yet, that was what I did all night in between short blinks of sleep, until finally, I decided to just get up and put on some comfortable clothes to make everyone a festive breakfast.
It was oddly nice to be up when everyone else still resting: the light Russian blue of the morning sky, the only sound that of my footsteps and mindless motions in the kitchen. It was a moment of peace- the comfort and nostalgia or Canadian bacon sizzling in a pan and the smell of sausage and eggs wafting from my craft. In all the stress, I had never really felt the 'holiday spirit', but now, it seemed as if a fog had cleared and I was made aware of all the efforts I had made in the fake pursuit of appearing 'better': the Christmas tree I had set up sparkling beautifully, the decorations I had placed warm and welcoming. Though I wasn't much of a singer, festive lyrics mingling with the smell of breakfast as I popped two pieces of bread into the toaster.
"I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me..."
Setting the table with plates and silverware, I began the process of making my parents each coffee how they both liked it; my father's mixed with his favorite hot cocoa, and my mother's with caramel flavored creamer, a natural smile lifting my cheeks as bits of childhood nostalgia flickered behind my eyes. My father wouldn't prefer coffee mixed with hot cocoa if I hadn't been playing 'restaurant' when I was a little kid; a cruel game for my parents which consisted of 6 year old me mixing together perfectly good food into disgusting concoctions to serve to them on a poorly constructed menu I would make with crayons and printer paper.
"Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents by the tree..." A worn sigh left my nose as the toaster's chime rang in the kitchen, a sense of loss tickling the bottom of my heart.
"Where did all the time go? How did things become like this?" I felt old when I had worries like that, but in a way, I was.
I was 'old enough' as my mother said...
Biting my lip, I winced as a wide crack formed in my chapped lips- the blood dripping down my chin onto the back of my hand.
The bright blood felt like a drop of rain, and while my tongue tapped at the metallic taste, my gaze lingered on the color for a hot moment, the sickly game refusing to take even one day's vacation as a loud buzzing deafened my ears and a sense of déjà vu clung to the back of my neck with Death's grip.
Especially when, under my beautiful Christmas tree, my eyes focused on a glossy scarlet box I could have sworn wasn't there last night.