Watching, still. (SWC)

In my years as a writer, I've read a lot of stories. I've read hundreds of authors, of magical stories, of unimaginable happenings, fantastic pieces of imagination. Or were they – we've all heard it said that writers put themselves in their stories. That they are, in one way or another, really writing about themselves. And I suppose I've done that from time to time, or at least, been aware of doing it from time to time. You don't really realize, do you, what parts of you seep into the story you're telling. But it stands to reason that they would, since you're not a robot, but a human being. A personal, unique creation.

See, I believe you shape your stories. That they sound a certain way, because they are told by you. 'American Gods' would sound so different if it was written by Margaret Atwood, instead of Neil Gaiman. There is magic in each of us, and I suppose it trickles into our words and actions, into the stories we tell.

That being said, I've never, to my knowledge, told this story. I couldn't tell you why. Perhaps because it's so personal, so close to my own heart. I've never written about it. The characters and happenings that I am about to unveil to you haven't appeared in any of my other stories. Although I'm a more than generous story-teller and I frequently lend my own experiences to my characters, I've never given these away. Moreover, the idea didn't even cross my mind. They are my secret. They are mine.
And now, they're yours.
Bear with me, if you will, because I've always been rather shy when it comes to talking about myself.

I don't remember the exact day it began. Of course, who's to say that even if I did pinpoint it, I'd be right? It might have been going on long before then, without me noticing. We're awfully ignorant when it comes to ourselves, sometimes.

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I was a child then, more than I am now. I must've been eleven or twelve, when I first became aware of him. He always appeared in dark places, and I think the first time I saw him was in a movie theater. I was with my best friend, watching some film I no longer remember, when halfway through the action, my attention was drawn by something several rows in front.
Or rather, someone. A being, although I couldn't exactly make out his features or clothes. However, I was fairly certain it was a man. As soon as I saw him, I froze. He was watching me, eyes burning in the darkness. I don't know if he had been watching before. Perhaps he'd felt me looking and turned to catch my eye.

'Hello.'

His eyes spoke to me in a most strange manner. I couldn't tell you how he had said that. His lips hadn't moved and even if he had said something, the film was too loud for me to hear.
Yet I heard his greeting loud and clear, burned in my brain. It was an old 'hello', like it had been spoken to me many times before. It was the first time, in my life, when I laid eyes on this creature. And yet it wasn't.
As soon as I saw him, I felt an old familiarity existed between us. Hello, it's been a while.
As if he had always been there, just at the back of my head, of my existence, always watching, yet never making himself known to me. I could tell from his eyes that he was there for me and only me. He wasn't watching the movie, he wasn't there with anyone. It was as if everyone else had paid to see the movie, and yet he had paid to see me.

I couldn't tell you if he smiled or not, just that I distinctly remember it so. That is to say, I don't know if he actually smiled, or if I just felt it in my mind, like his greeting. He smiled, without showing his teeth. I can see it now, in my head, his lips relaxing, spreading out across his face. He had thin lips, but his smile was very warm. It was an old smile, like I've missed you. This was most strange, because this was a stranger, someone I had never seen in my entire life, yet I felt like I had missed him, too. Like we knew each other from somewhere, and we knew each other well, although I knew, in my head that we did not.

I kept staring at him, throughout the movie. Not continuously, I would look away, watch the movie – although I couldn't really concentrate, for my mind was on this most strange individual – and then turn, only to see the stranger looking up at me.

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I felt silent screams make their way up my throat, only to die out when they reached my mouth. I was so terrified of this stranger, because I felt like I didn't have any secrets from him. Like I was naked, in front of him, like he could see down to my very soul. And I had the bad feeling that he was a most unforgiving man.
I wanted to scream and run and get away and be safe. And what I wanted most was to stop this man from looking at me, I wanted to hide from his all-seeing eyes, because I didn't want him to see through me, to know me. I felt he knew me so well, that he robbed me of any control whatsoever.

You are helpless in front of me, there is no hiding. I know everything.

These weren't the exact words, because there were no words between us. There was just...feeling. His eyes spoke to me more than any lips could say.

It's alright.

His strong arms enveloped my soul, which suddenly felt very small and I felt reassured. I felt safe and yet frightened, although he somehow let me know I shouldn't be. It was terrifying. I do realize, writing now, that it sounds oddly...sexual, although it wasn't. Not at all. It was a connection of the mind, of the spirit. It had so very little to do with the body.

And then, the movie was over. And I looked for the man. And he wasn't there. No one had gone out of the cinema, I was sure of that. Since he was in front of me, I would've easily been able to spot him moving. Yet I didn't. Nothing moved, no one left, but nobody was there, either. I wanted to scream. I still do, after all these years.

I saw him many times after that, always in dark places. Or in crowds. Places where everybody had a right to be. I'd spot him walking after me, in crowds of people, in the city. Gradually, I became less afraid of him. Maybe I had grown used to his presence, to his closeness to me. Maybe I realized he was telling the truth and I had nothing to fear. He always existed, but just to me. Nobody else saw him and I began wondering if I was insane. Yet I knew my own imagination, and this was not born in it.
See, I believe we know, somewhere deep down, what we're capable of. Or at least, know ourselves well enough to recognize the work of our own head. And this certainly wasn't mine.

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Our encounters were similar and they always brought this breeziness, this break from reality. He'd stare at me, in crowds. And smile and speak to me, sometimes. Sometimes, I didn't see him, but I felt his presence. For example, he was never in classroom with me, but yet, he was. I remember I would just space out, in class, or at home, just get caught somewhere – maybe in my head, maybe not. Sometimes I would write our conversations. Trace the words with my fingertips, either on my own skin, or on furniture. I never looked at my hands, when I “spoke” to him, because then, the...whatever it was, would be broken. The connection? The spell? The magic?
I don't know.

I couldn't tell you what bound us or why he chose me. I don't even know if he did choose me. Perhaps he was as much without a choice in the matter as I was.

I don't remember what words I would trace, I just remember that they both made sense and were absolutely senseless. Not the sort of conversation you would have with anyone else. Not normal talks, definitely. I can't remember words, but only the feelings. The queasiness and curiosity and lost-ness and wonder that filled my words and perhaps his.

He was very real. But as I said, he was a secret. Nobody else seemed to see him, when he was there, their eyes would just glide over him, like he wasn't there. Perhaps he wasn't. Perhaps I'm just crazy, or was crazy to ever see him, in the first place.

But I don't think so.

Crazy is such an easy way out, such an obvious explanation and dismissal of anything out of this world. It would certainly be very boring if that's all there is. Besides, he felt real. Now, growing up, I had my fair share of imaginary friends, I suppose every writer does...and this wasn't like that. This was so much further. So much more...real, more out of my control. Independent of my head and frightening. So, I don't think I made it up...

And then one day, he disappeared. Or rather, he stopped appearing to me, or speaking to me. I'd look for him, because by then I had developed some feeling of closeness ( though the original fear had remained) to him, I actually liked the secret, I liked talking to him.
But maybe he didn't like talking to me, because he was just...gone. No more showing up in crowds or theater rooms, no more crowds, no more tracing of our words. Nothing.

I've never spoken about this, to anyone, not even to my closest friends. It was a secret. Perhaps I shouldn't even be writing this, but somehow, I don't feel this is breaking our secret. I always had a feeling he would pop up in a story of mine, at some point, and I don't think he would mind.

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He was very intelligent. Very well-spoken. He had bright, burning eyes, although I don't remember their color. I can't describe his face either, because at this point, it would just be guess work. I only remember the fire in his eyes and those thin lips, smiling. That image still makes me feel safe, for some reason. And he always wore a dark overcoat, like a trench coat. He was very elegant.

I don't know if he ever was really there. I mean, I know he was, because I felt him and saw him and spoke to him. Just, you know...I couldn't really give you any proof. Maybe he was just a figment of my imagination, although I do not think so. This might not make sense, but he was too real to be imaginary.

Perhaps he was a ghost, a wandering spirit. Perhaps he was some sort of guardian angel...
I have the distinct feeling I will see him again, in this life. Although I do not know if it will be as a consequence to my actions, if there is something specific that must happen before I can see him again. Maybe it's out of my hands, I don't really know...I just know he is still there, somewhere. Watching, still.

This was written for Jerry Banfield's Supernatural Writing Contest. It was a...strange experience, but an interesting one. (1961 words)

Anyway, thank you for reading.