It’s All in Your Head
She wears the headphones for a reason. They drown out all
the sounds in her head—the random thoughts and wayward musings of everyone
around her. She blasts the music so loud sometimes people give her the
side-eye. Without it, though, she couldn’t function. There would be no room in
her head for herself.
It doesn’t drown out him,
though.
He’s been following her for three days. She’s never seen
him, but she can sense him. Somehow the background noise that is his roving
brain eases past the blast of screamo and dubstep that constantly inhabits her
skull. It’s a soft voice, so she’s not sure how it manages to find her in the
midst of the chaos, but somehow it does.
Mostly it’s a low murmur, like white noise, a burbling
river. Like those music tracks you get to help you fall asleep—the ones that
don’t wok for her because they aren’t loud enough. But sometimes there are
words.
I see you.
It doesn’t scare her as much as maybe it should. She’s used
to weird things going on around her, both inside and outside her head. She’s
lived with that her whole life. But even if it doesn’t scare her, not really,
it puts her on edge. Why is he here? What does he want? Is he even a he?
Three days. And after breakfast today, when she realizes she
hasn’t heard him, she wonders where he is.
Not very dedicated,
are you? Stalk me for three days and then give up? Weak.
She starts her car and heads in to work. Sometimes she can drive
without the headphones on, but not always. Today she sets them on the passenger
seat and gives it a try. She knows from experience that cops will pull you over
if they see you driving with headphones on. And somehow, the movement of the
car eases the cacophony in her head. It’s a respite of sorts.
Today it’s surprisingly quiet, at least once she gets onto
the highway. She takes a slow, relieved breath and leaves the headphones where
they are. Sometimes the music is as disturbing as the voices.
Where is he? she wonders idly. If she can hear him, can he
hear her? Is he, maybe, on the highway with her right now?
She gets that feeling—that weird itch even normal people get
when somebody’s watching them. She looks to the left, at the car coming up
beside her in the passing lane. The driver looks right back at her and smiles.
God. It’s him. Is it him? She shoots her attention back to
the road in front of her. She doesn’t dare look at him again, but that face is
burned into her memory now, emblazoned on her retinas.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Cheekbones that could cut glass. And
then she hears the whisper.
I see you. I’ll talk
to you soon. Soon.
What do you what?
she demands in her head, though her lips move to match the words. Why are you following me?
But there’s no answer.
* * *
After work she heads downtown. It’s raining, and it’s
dark—the sun goes down early this time of year. It gets quieter downtown as it
gets later. Soon there are only a few people here and there. The din dies down,
but it’s more fractured. Many of the people who linger in the streets after
dark are broken. Anxiety, depression, schizophrenia, PTSD—she’s heard it all.
This time, though, the headphones are as much to strangle
her own thoughts as to drown out everyone else’s. It was a difficult day at
work, overhearing her boss thinking about firing her because she’s withdrawn,
antisocial, and what is it with the damn headphones every damn day? For some
reason she couldn’t block him out, not all the way. It’s never been like that
before, and she can’t figure out what changed to make it happen.
The temperatures have dropped with the darkness and the
rain, and the cold against her face feels good. She shoves her hands deep into her
pockets and ducks her head, just walking.
Suddenly a hand touches her shoulder.
She spins, and he’s right there.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Cheekbones that could cut glass.
“We need to talk,” he says, and smiles.
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