80Title: In the corner of your eye
Chapter 1: I can see you
He's there again.
You're telling me. He mustn't have much of a life.
He's occupying the spot in the cafeteria where nobody sits because the table and chair are placed in such a way that you literally have a pillar in your face. He's somehow managed to squeeze himself inside that narrow space yet follow my progress from door to serving station to checkout counter in one unbroken stare.
Watching YOUR progress? That confirms it. He doesn't have a life, period.
Now, now, don't pretend you don't like the attention. You're always shouting for mine.
I choose a table where he has to either move or fold himself in half if he wants to see me. I never gave him permission to look at me. Why should I make it any easier for him?
You're doing it again, aren't you?
Doing what again? I'm not doing anything. He's the one that's staring.
Then take your sandwich and go eat outside on the lawn.
It's cold outside. Besides, he's just looking. No harm in that.
Said the rabbit before the hawk swooped down on it.
Maybe he's just shy.
I DON'T like this.
Then go to sleep and let me handle this.
I commend him on finding me. I'm not easy to see. I'm just one of the faces in the crowd, part of the throng of inconsequential people that form the background for the stories of the important people—the leaders and popular kids—to play out against. I don't even have an identity with a comforting set of expectations to conform to; not a nerd, a jock, a best friend, a weirdo rebel.
Nobody has ever seen me.
Except him.
He's decided not to make himself stand out by moving. You only change seats in the cafeteria if you're a somebody—in which case you've probably been hailed by your other shiny pals—or if you're a nobody—in which case you've probably been told to move by one of the shiny people. He doesn't seem to be either type. Not one of the haves – not flashy enough, not obviously good-looking or athletically-built enough. But also not one of the have-nots – he isn't frayed at the edges; he looks cared-for by somebody: a parent, a girlfriend, maybe just himself.
The spot I've chosen offers a clear view of the corner behind the pillar. I make the most of my strategic move to look at him. Wavy black hair. Dark eyes. Make that brown eyes, made dark by the deep sockets they're set in. Olive complexion. Vaguely Pan-Asian features. Not a face you'd look at twice, but if you did, a face that could take some looking, and improve with each view.
Are we perhaps a little... smitten? Unrequitedly so?
Don't go all catty like some cheerleader. I don't think he even knows my name yet... What's my current name again?
Is this really necessary? *Eye roll* It's IGGY. I don't understand why you don't just stick to one name.
Because names are important. Every name I've ever had has its own memories of the life I lived with it. But now I'm Iggy. Invisible Iggy.
If you're so invisible, why can he see you?
Feisty today, aren't you?
It's your fault. The excitement of the chase and all that.
I eat my sandwich, which I don't need, and drink my sickeningly sweet cold drink that's probably going to give me some horrible metabolic syndrome. I do all this alone. Because nobody ever sits with me.
So who, then, is this rather irritating entity that I'm talking to and occasionally together in chorus with?
Just myself.
Irritating Iggy! I like it! Has a nice ring to it.
Hush, I'm narrating my life story here.
Yes, I talk to myself.
What? You do it too. You talk to yourself; you know, that part of yourself that's in your head. The voice that's the opposite of what you show the world.
The rational voice of reason if you're an impulsive daredevil.
The cheerful accommodating voice if you're a suspicious bundle of nerves.
The dark twisted one if you're the epitome of goodness and light.
.
.
Have you been listening to my Voice? Then you know what kind of person I am on the outside. Appearances can be deceiving – Whoever invented that saying wasn't kidding.
.
.
The bell goes. We leave the cafeteria and begin migrating sluggishly towards my—our—next class. That's the only thing we seem to have in common so far – we're both corners. I sit in one corner, he sits in another.
Another half a day of meaningless information delivered in uninspired ways to an uninterested captive audience later, I exit the site of my daily sedation, walking at a faster pace than usual to slip my way through the homeward-bound stampede. I'm good at slipping through things.
He's following me. I can see glimpses of his plaid shirt through the herd.
I leap out from around the corner, exactly like a cartoon character, but I stop short of saying "Boo!" or some other silly thing like that. And just like another cartoon character, he literally turns pale.
"I can see you." I tell him solemnly.
Stating the obvious. Way to go. REALLY great first impression.
He swallows, adjusts his collar, tries to explain his nervousness. "You... uh... startled me."
That's a killer pick-up line, that is.
Thank you for the observation. Now keep quiet for a sec.
I give him my intense look, the one I save for limited use because staring so hard makes me go cross-eyed afterwards. "Stop stalking me."
Now he's gone a most fetching shade of red. "I'-I'm not s-stalking you!"
Are you crazy? The guy might be a homicidal maniac. What are you DOING provoking him?
Be quiet. I know exactly what I'm doing.
I'm hungry.
Patience. Hunger only makes it better.
Oh come on, it's such a LONGGGGG wait.
We're getting there. He was just curious up to this point.
Now he realises it.
He wants me.
.
.
I maintain eye contact just a second longer, just long enough to allow him to see the flash of interest underneath the top layer of determined annoyance. And then I turn on my heel.
He doesn't follow. But he is thinking about me. I can feel his thoughts riding on his feverish gaze that is dogging my retreating back.
Nice. But slowwwwww!
We have desire. We just need to tip it over into obsession.
.
.
.
And then we feed.
.
.
.
Writer: I think I deserve a reward for finishing my challenge story in the convention third person past tense (Haunting the Forgotten). So in honour of my upcoming first anniversary on Fictionpress, this is yet another first person present tense effort in my comfort zone. This time, however, it's in a new genre for me: horror. It's my very first effort at being creepy. It's also my first time writing in a contemporary setting rather than an alternate fantasy world or a futuristic sci-fi setting. Hope it's passable.
It's a very short first chapter, I know. But I'm still feeling my way around in the dark, pun intended.
Please comment, react, review... I need motivation to go on.