The following is my response. Although I believe this story strays from the intended spirit a bit, I appreciate having a prompt to work from nonetheless.
I did not expect this blog to take this tone for its first story, but here we are, in a couple thousand words.
I am home.
I am home, and I am in bed, and I am lying down, and I am safe. The day is done, the blanket is warm, the room is quiet, my eyes are closed, and I am breathing steadily.
I am relaxed -- until I am not. I am resting peacefully, until I feel a tightening in my chest. My heart begins to beat more strongly. I now feel like I am laboring to suck in each breath yet failing to fill my lungs.
I need most of my willpower, my focus, just to avoid the sensation intensifying; this feeling of a teasing panic, something more nervous on my peripheral. I know it is already too late to avoid, completely, what comes next. It is, at least, a sequence that I am familiar with. The wheels have already begun to spin. The gears in my brain are turning, clicking into place, only to set more tumblers into motion.
He lies down behind me, in the bed. I can't tell if the room is getting colder or hotter, but the air changes.
I hear him sigh. It is a smug, contented sigh, as he takes his sweet time to shift more comfortably. This is all part of it, the pacing. He feeds on the energy it takes for me to maintain my composure, second by second. By second. By second. By second.
Then he speaks, which is his favorite thing to do. I listen, which is among my least.
"Hi there! You weren't getting too comfortable, were you? I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
He speaks in a cheery tone; a little too loud, almost cocky. Sleep is a fantasy, now, for a while at least. I'm in for the ride whether I want to be or not. I have to almost amuse myself, trying to crawl deeper inside my head, wondering what tactics he will try tonight, trying to foresee how this will go, running all the scenarios and trying to anticipate his next moves.
"It's just that I miss you already. I know I already visited you once today, but I just had to see you again, as soon as I could!"
Oh, of course. Of course he wouldn't let that go. It's true: After weeks of silence, he suddenly showed up this morning in a surprise attack. It was awful. Do we have to relive this?
"Don't you love how easily I can affect you? All I have to do is pluck at one string in your mind, tug at one loose thread, and I can set off a chain reaction of insecurities. It's remarkable. Your entire self-worth is built on a foundation of dominoes, waiting to fall at any second. Your self-esteem is the most fragile thing I have ever seen."
I feel a hand gently land on my upper back. I don't gasp audibly. It's a little victory, but I don't give him that pleasure. The gentle hand moves a soothing warmth into my body, and begins caressing in a slow, broad circle, over my shoulders before dipping below their blades. It is my mother's hand. It is just one of his many tricks.
"You do remember it, right? How you walked into your boss's office this morning? But your allergies have been acting up lately, and you're so self-conscious of the symptoms. Heaven forbid someone should spot a used tissue in your wastebasket, let alone notice the change in your voice when your sinuses are clogged. Today was especially difficult, yes? Everything above your neck this time, really. You were obsessing over every detail, trying to present your best self, like your life depended on it."
Do we have to go over this? I try to think of something else, anything else. I think of the scene from the movie Orange County, when Jack Black's character runs toward the pool, only to stop to remove his socks before jumping in to save his friend. I think of a childhood family vacation to Carolina Beach State Park, and the saltwater scent in the air along the sand. I think of the moment I broke my arm. The time I moved out of my parent's house. An idea for a medieval fantasy novel.
None of it matters. I am already reliving those moments earlier, my fear and my nerves. He knows this. It's like being told not to think about a purple elephant. My mind's eye will keep snapping back to the same things. It is just one of his many tricks.
"You became vividly aware of the crane of your neck, the angle of your chin. You wanted to be sure you appeared confident, but not above your rank, but more equal than subservient. But was your head tilted to one direction, slightly? That's a problem you've had before, you know. Someone had to tell you, once, that your head was tilted, when they were trying to take a photo of you. You remember that, don't you? I digress. There you were, in your boss's office this morning, abruptly aware of how frequently you were blinking, the extent of the clench of your teeth and how it affected the visual slope of your cheeks, trying to discern just how much mucus was in your nostrils and how noticeable that could possibly be. You even stopped breathing, remember? You held your breath. Because you know you breathe too loudly, sometimes. It's audible. People can notice."
I can't help these things, sometimes. He knows this, of course. His hand continues caressing my back as he goes on.
"And then you tried to talk! Remember that? Oh god, you were so pitiful. Using every ounce of your mental faculties to script your words, and focus on your enunciation, and determine your cadence, and make sure your tone is just right, and your volume is okay, your pitch, and try to keep it all in concert, just to meet the minimum threshold of sounding normal. Normal!"
Just as I'm becoming accustomed to the hand on my back, it leaves. I know it's hovering close by, but I'm not going to look back. I wouldn't dare. He continues.
"Do you realize how easy it is for everyone else? They never have to spend a single second of their lives being actively aware of how they conduct themselves. They just do it. They weave effortlessly in and out of every social situation. They flirt with pretty people, they crack jokes with their coworkers, they make small talk with neighbors, they manage themselves politely at family functions. They spend their whole lives enjoying the fruit of relationships that come naturally to them. And it's not because they're good at any of this -- it's just because they're normal. That's the norm. That's how it's supposed to be. But not for you. You're a freak."
Okay. This is another small victory. He hasn't used that word in a while. I'm numb to it, almost. It used to have a much larger effect. Now, in this context, at this age, it sounds almost humorous. He takes a moment to chuckle quietly. Then, he continues.
"Then your boss would speak in turn, and you would catch yourself being unsure of which of his eyes to look at, and then catch yourself wondering if he could tell you were unsure, and if you looked crazy, looking from one eye to the other so much. Because you don't want anyone to think anything's wrong with you, right? But maybe your posture is a little unnatural. Did you have any idea what you were doing with your hands? You walk weird, too, you know that? Even babies learn how to walk without a problem; but not you, you have to consider your gait and how your feet land and how much to bend your knees, the motion of your hips, and how much to swing your arms at what speed and to what extent, and how much to curl your fingers and where to look as you're walking down the hall and how sharp of an angle to take into any given doorway. You're so pathetic!"
He laughs; harder, this time. Louder. Meaner. Some nights, he'll pick one insecurity and take it apart, like an autopsy, examining every possible facet of it until I feel like my skin has been peeled off of my body. Other nights, it's more of a scattershot approach, where he'll see how many of my idiosyncrasies he can pick on and pick apart before he leaves. While the effect is always similar, the approach can vary, which makes him even more unpredictable, which adds to his power. He knows this. It is just one of his many tricks.
"I mean, wow, you're lucky you've gotten this far in life. Don't get me wrong, you're not successful by any measure, not like you want to be, but at least you're holding a job now. You should be ashamed of yourself, being in this position by pure luck, finding a place where people have enough pity on you. You should feel guilty. There are people so much smarter and more talented that would be so grateful to be in your place. You know nobody there actually likes you, right? Outside the office, there's no reason they'd ever want anything to do with you. Why would they? Why would anyone? Remember that time, as a child, when you walked by your brother's room, and he had a friend over, and you overheard him mention how annoying you were? They both laughed. That's the typical response to you, you just don't get to hear it usually because it's behind your back. Imagine what else everyone says behind your back!"
I am beginning to feel worn down. My eyelids begin to moisten with reluctant tears, the kind you apologize for, the kind about which you say to people, "I don't know why I'm crying." Just before they inevitably say, "Aww, hey, it's okay, let it out," and move closer to you, and try to encourage you.
My breath is halting.
Then he places his hand over mine. I freeze. He begins to trace the tip of his thumb over each of my fingernails. This is a taunt, perverting one of my behaviors. Sometimes when my mental state is at full cacophony, I think of the surface area of my fingernails like a measurable grid, and track the progress of my thumb as it traces over every section. Fully covering my nails in this process feels like completing a task. There is a mathematical symmetry to it, that serves to center my attention and help calm myself.
He knows this, and he is making fun of it. He is taking one of my helpful acts and making me feel like it only reinforces how broken and 'wrong' I am, rather than how it helps. It is just one of his many tricks.
"What is wrong with you, anyway?"
His voice has lowered to a whisper, right in my ear. I just lie there. I try to let the words wash over me like lukewarm water. I try to disassociate completely. I try to simply not pay attention. I try not to let every little implication take root in myself and lead to more doubts and vulnerabilities.
"Do you think if anyone really knew what you were like, inside your own head, they would ever like you? Love you? Want to be with you?"
His thumb stops swiping over the nails on my hand. Instead, he is sliding his hand over mine altogether, interlacing our fingers. Holding. He gives a single, soft squeeze.
Some nights, it's just my body he likes to talk about. How the webbing between my big toe and the next toe is so much longer than any of the others. How there is no possible way to look in the mirror and be happy with the shape of my arms. How much better everyone else's hair looks than mine. The pouch of fat over my crotch, or sitting on my hips. How my eyes are green but people think they're blue half the time. He will just focus on my body, and that alone will make me feel terrible. Tonight, he hasn't even mentioned it, but his presence brings bad memories of his past visits. This, too, is part of his power. It is just one of his many tricks.
"Just think," he whispers. "You will spend your entire lifetime exerting yourself strenuously, just to appear like a functioning adult, while everyone else gets to live in peaceful ease without even trying. No matter what drugs you try, no matter what therapist you see, no matter what coping mechanisms you foster, no matter your outlook, no matter how old you get, you will always have one thing holding you back from happiness and peace. Do you know what that is? Hm?"
I mouth the word, "What?"
He replies, in a rumbling growl, in my own voice:
"Me."
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