Every morning I would see her through parted curtains. I’d watch with dilated pupils as she left the house for work. An office job, judging by her attire. She was, quite literally, the girl next door, my bedroom window serendipitously gifting me with a gloriously unobstructed view of her front yard and driveway. Every day, I admired my good fortune and watched her.
I knew that if the opportunity arose, I’d be too afraid to speak to her. No matter, just a daily glimpse was enough to inhale her beauty. And she was beautiful, gorgeous in fact, her graceful movements exuding confidence. Often, my voyeuristic pleasure would be interrupted by my own self-awareness. A wave of shame would overcome me as I regarded my un-showered body and the feculent dressing gown that adorned it.
Sometimes, as a means of self-torture I suppose, I would
imagine what would happen if she were to see me. If I tried, I could convincingly conjure the
revulsion on her face as she looked back at a grown man – her next-door
neighbour – leering at her. If our eyes
ever met, I would recoil and command the Earth to open up and swallow me before
my heart stopped from sheer embarrassment.
I’m certain she’d regard me as no more than a common pervert, and in
truth, she would be right. I desired
her, but girls like her always seemed unattainable.
As perversions go, this one was harmless. There were worse things I could do while ogling
the pretty girl next door. But alas,
that’s all I was doing – staring – hands by my side - lost in a fantasy where I
possessed the courage to actually speak to her.
But what would a girl like that ever have to say to me? By comparison, I was sputum – nothing more
than a lecherous hobgoblin with a hard on.
Then, one morning, as I stared at her, I heard a voice – a
voice that was not mine.
I want to be inside of her.
Its tone was clear and masculine, and as I lived alone, came
as quite a surprise. I waved the strange
occurrence away, invoking Occam’s razor and dismissing it as a biproduct of a
poor night’s sleep. Taking inventory of
the takeaway food I’d eaten the previous night, I half-heartedly resolved to
treat my body with greater care, and went about my day as usual.
The next morning, as I watched my mystery girl, the voice
came again:
I want to be inside her.
“That’s enough!”, I shouted, at once alarmed by the fact
that not only was I responding to an imaginary voice, but had the audacity to
become irritated with it.
After work, I dug out some old university textbooks and
thumbed through their pages. I was
fearful of the black fact that had been looming large in my mind ever since the
voice had started speaking: Schizophrenia.
My family carried no history of it, but auditory and visual
hallucinations were a common symptom of the disorder.
I know what you’re thinking, came the voice, but I’m not
inside your head. I’m out here. We want the same thing. I can help you.
Determined to ignore it, I went to bed, eventually finding
sleep. A few hours later, I awoke to a
sticky sensation against my body. Realising
it wasn’t due to the usual reasons, I reached for the lamp on my bedside
table. The tiny light flooded the
bedroom revealing bedsheets soaked in blood.
Startled, I cast the sheets aside to reveal twenty or thirty small cuts about
my arms and legs, as if I had been slashed by some unseen blade. Each laceration was painful and bleeding to
some degree.
If I can’t be inside her, then I’ll be inside you, came the
voice.
The next day I remained home from work and bandaged my limbs. Resolving to clean up my diet, I took to the
kitchen to cook myself some healthy food for once. As I carefully chopped a carrot, apprehensive
holding the sharp instrument, the voice came again:
Typical. I might have
known I’d end up in a house occupied by a vegetarian, it sneered.
Unwilling to be goaded into a confrontation, I focused on my
chopping.
Don’t you ever have the urge to eat some meat? All of life’s pleasures involve flesh, you
know.
“I’m not listening to you!”
But why not? We both
want to be inside her. I could be a
friend to you
“A friend!? How? I don’t even know where you are!”
I’m nearby. You’ve
seen me every day - used me many times. I’ve
felt the warmth of your hand around my body.
As the voice continued, I stopped what I was doing and madly
searched the kitchen. I’m not sure what
I expected to find. A hidden speaker? Perhaps put there as a prank by a
friend?
Not likely. I
thought, dismissively, knowing full well that I had no friends.
That girl you like - I can help you talk to her.
“How?”
The next time you see her, take me with you. My presence will give you the confidence you
need. Just think of me as your
wingman. All you have to do, is hold me
in your hand.
And that’s exactly how the police found me, the next day,
outside her car. My mystery girl had locked
herself inside it after I’d approached her.
She seemed so scared, I’m not sure why.
I only wanted to talk to her, to ask her name and introduce her to my shiny
wingman.
The wingman that I griped in my hand. The wingman that had been speaking to me for
days. The wingman that was a utensil
from my house, somehow sentient and now speaking to me, stoking my animalistic
desires. He was right. We both wanted the same thing: flesh – to be
inside it. My wingman had given me
confidence.
My wingman was a knife.
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