He is there, he is always there. Watching. Waiting. Waiting for me to talk, to reach out, to tell someone, anyone, that he exists. That he is here.
That I will give his monstrous existence a form, a tangible account, a name, anything. That his existence will be given a name.
But I'm not sure what I need to do anymore, and I'm not sure what will help me anymore. I'm sure I cannot say it out loud, but I'm hoping this account, this note somehow helps.
I don't know if anyone will read this, and honestly I cannot begin to care about somebody else, all I can do is live on hope.
That it leaves me alone, and hope that it let's me breathe a little more.
The chills and the cold, the darkness and the pull of space around it is there. A corner or any space, in plain sight and sometimes hidden, hidden but always visible enough.
Visible enough for me. And when I'm all alone it's here in it's full naked, unashamed, flamboyant form.
When I go in the kitchen, heat my food in the microwave, through the corner of my eyes, I see his coat. As I open the door to my room, he's right THERE in front of me, looking.
All I do is look away. Try to hide my fear and my racing heartbeat from the scares and the sudden. He moves swiftly. Sits there in the corner of my bed, looking.
Starting at me read from my laptop. And as I turn and as I reach for my book, he helps me to it.
With a creaking voice, like static from a forgotten station, he's always near me and making his presence felt.
In my walks to parks, as I stroll with my friends, through the fields of my local grounds, he's there. Always there. Even in lonely cab drives I'm NEVER alone. He's always there.
In my morning runs, in my paving while I attend to my phone calls, he's always there. While I Laugh at jokes, or cry in the dark alone, HE'S ALWAYS THERE. looking and creaking.
Looking and just there starting.
I don't remember not having him around, from the beginning of my memory he's always been there.
But I've never quite met his eye, somehow I've had the sense of almost a forbidden act, of not ever talking to him, or addressing him.
I remember when my father told me something when I was three.
In the backyard as my sister built her sand castle, as he looked at her and her friends play in the pit, he looked at the tree in our yard, he looked at me with dread in his eyes.
I remember how he fixed his eyes in mine, almost in efforts to burn the memory into my skull, I can almost still hear what he said. He told me of a darkness that he knows I know.
He said he wants me to be strong and quiet.
He placed his arms around my shoulders and fixing his eyes on me he said "stay away from the shadows, don't let them take you, don't let them know you,
protect the ones who show you" and as soon as the sentence ended he almost changed instantly. His jolly self was "here" again.
As he turned to help missy with her castle as one of her sand buckets broke, the shadow of the tree was now intense.for ever more. Growing. Growing at the extent I've come to know it as.
My father disappeared from our lives when I was 10. Even mom doesn't know what happened or where he went.
To this day, everyone says he's one of the millions classified as "missing", but I know where he went. I know he went to save us, or just someone, because that was the kind of man he was.
And I'll never forget.
I have always known this shadow, and I feel so close to it I can almost refer to it as "him".
At this point, after 20 years I don't even need to see him, his coat, his dark hidden face, the corner of his shape. An ominous glow and a deep dark sense and I know he's there.
I can feel him breathing down my neck, peering and looking as I write. Reading. Eyeing. He never does anything else. He exists. He observes. His eyes never miss a thing.
I almost feel I am making him much more powerful by even acknowledging the extent of his powers, but I don't think this is news to him. I can feel him looking as my pen moves.
And now I am scared to stop. Scared to see what will happen as soon as I close this journal. But maybe, just maybe I'll look in those eyes.
I'm tired now. I'm tired of staying, I'm tired of all, this. I'm tired of how unfair life is. How someone has to go through so much to just breathe.
While existing is a luxury it certainly shouldn't be. It isn't fair and you may call me a coward and tell me and write me off for giving up. But I am not.
In this moment I'm letting my life to a different place. For you see, I'm done. I can't go on alone anymore. I might just turn my head a little bit and face him. For he's there. I know he is.
I feel his cold absence of a presence. I see the shadows and feel his breath. And maybe I'll let him show what he wants me to see.
I'll stare into his bottomless eyes and let him take me wherever he points to.