I could see it in her eyes. Hatred dominating the woman’s thoughts and her very existence. I looked deeply into her eyes and they appeared the darkest black that I had ever seen. Like two cess pools held by overly large sockets and filled with a bottomless pit of her own selfish human waste.
She looked back at me. I asked myself what I had done to make her look at me with such disdain. Nothing. I had done nothing to her. So why did she look at me that way?
I could find no reason and so I didn’t take it personally. She looked at everyone in the same way. She hated everyone yet strangely, no-one hated her. Pitied her yes, but not hated. She was disliked and shunned, but certainly not hated. Even I could not hate her. She figured so low in my life now that hating her would be a waste of time and energy. She simply did not matter any more. At least that was what I told myself.
So I broke the stare, turned away and looked in the opposite direction. The waitress brought my coffee so I sipped it carefully as I watched the people passing by, complete with their shopping bags and worried faces, most of them with kids in tow. They were the lucky ones. I had been denied a partner and children.
But I could feel her still looking at me. Her eyes burrowing into the back of my head like she was trying to invade my thoughts. I tried to ignore her and I continued to people watch. As usual, she was so insistent and I began to get one of those headaches, her stare felt like a myriad of acidic ants burning their way into my brain, devouring my normal thought processes on its way.
“Leave me alone” I heard myself scream at her “go away.”
The waitress cast me a sharp glance, disapproval written all over her face. Tears started to burst from my eyes. I couldn’t take much more. For years I had taken care of her, fed her and watered her. I had got her up in the morning and put her to bed at night. Changed her clothes and wiped her backside. I could take no more.
I screamed at her again. The waitress made towards me, but she must have seen something in my eyes that she didn‘t care for, changed her mind and ran into the kitchen. Still she stared at me, her eyes even more intense. I lifted the cup of hot coffee and I threw it at her. It missed.
Anger filled me as I screamed at her over and over; my face just an inch or so from hers. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to feel her scrawny, wrinkled neck as I squeezed the life out of her. I wanted to see her eyes pleading for mercy as her life force faded into oblivion leaving me with the satisfaction of knowing that she could see me no more. But I couldn’t, so I ran…
…and ran. From her, from me, from everything.
Eventually I stopped running. I gave up. As God is my witness, she had won and once again, I was the loser. I am okay with that now, thanks to the drugs. The staff are nice too and I have a lovely room. The walls and floors are nice and soft and it’s warm. Sometimes when I am good, they take me for a walk in the garden.
She still comes to stare at me, but I can cope with her now. She wants to take me away with her, but I won’t let her. I don’t want to go. I like my room too much, and the garden. The nurses try to tell me that she is not real, but I know differently because I used to be sort of a nurse myself. I had nursed her, and that was real; all too real.
She had begged me to end it for her and I wouldn’t. The disease had eaten into her for too long, and I remember her pain and how it lingered. I suppose I could have upped her medication but I didn’t, and she hated me for not helping her. Maybe she hated me for what I didn’t do, instead of loving me for what I did. I watched her die and I felt the death rattles vibrate up my arm while I mopped her brow. I still hear her last dying exhalation of air as her soul left her body when I try to sleep at night.
So I know she will never go away, unless I go with her. But where would she take me? As I ponder this, I can feel the eyes again, then the headache begins but now I have nothing to throw, and nowhere to run.
It’s just her, me, the acidic ants and not even a waitress to hear me scream.
READER'S REVIEWS (2) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"this is a wonderful little tale...I completely enjoyed it and thought your style in developing characters was superb. Continue the fine work." -- e. rocco caldwell.
"Wow, this was a great story. Very eerie, I laughed when he first yelled out at her, and continued to yell at her in the restaruant. Great job once again." -- Moses M Constable.
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