SHORT STORY: Wingman

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.