Will It Ever Stop Following Me?

I’m still in the hospital after what happened, starting with that unanswered phone call. I was told I needed to set boundaries. So, I set the boundary to not answer after 9 pm, since she was usually drunk by then. I’m still not sure if I would have picked up, knowing my mother would pass away that night.

Not that we ever had a great relationship. When I was young, I wondered if she drank to just embarrass me, since I didn’t understand it. As I got older, I tried to stick to myself, keeping my head tucked into a book. It was hard to ignore her loud country music playing on school nights, but even more so when she would scream at me for being a freak. I never understood why she called me that, even now.

The story of my father is illusive. Sometimes it was he died right before I was born, then on some drunken nights it was he wasn’t ready to settle down and have a family, so he took off. There is no one to confirm either way, and I’ve learned to not ask about it.

Regardless, a week after I missed that phone call, I ended up here.

Day 1:

With luck, I was able to get the day off from work. I dressed in all black, as did everyone else. Everyone included some coworkers and a few friends she was able to keep between the years. Then there was a man that I didn’t know. We all stood around her grave, said our prayer, and it was over. So fast to begin and with similarity to end. On my way back to my car, the man ran to catch up with me. His eyes were so familiar.

“I’m so sorry. This must be hard for you,” the man said; these words gutted me. Still loving someone even though they spent most of your life making you their punching bag, while simultaneously taking care of all your primal needs, is a deep sting I couldn’t let him see. Confused about more than who he was.

“Do I know you?”

“Were you her daughter?” he asked with trepidation.

“Yeah. And you are?” He threw his face into his hands and mumbled some words to himself. He picks his head up; with a red face and tears in his eyes.

“She told me she lost the baby. She told me to leave. I tried to be there for her, but she was so far gone. I never saw or heard from her again. I live a couple hours away now, but I saw her obituary, and for some reason I thought I should show up. I don’t know why I did. Then I saw you,“ he said with a shaky voice, and concern across his face. Unable to comprehend what to do or even say, he began again.

“It's you're birthday soon, right? We were going to have a January baby...” he said as he began his tedious breath with a hand on his forehead. “I mourned the loss of... well, you...at the beginning of every year.” Then he smiled while still holding tension in his eyebrows. “But you’re here. Oh God, you’re here now. I should have known, or found out for sure.”

Stunned with crossed arms, I just nodded. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, please, here’s my card, call me, please, please call me.” With desperation, he handed me a card and walked away. Still frozen, I watched as he walked to his car, and halfway there, he turned around and gave me a small wave.

After standing in the cold for what seemed like years, I slumped into my car and headed home. When I got there, I made myself a drink. Unusual, as I promised myself I would never become this person, but I was feeling too much. One lead to another and I hobbled to bed.

Day 2:

I took a Xanax when I woke up, just to ease into the day. The doctor had given them to me right after my mom died, saying it would help me through this ‘season’, as she referred to it. After given only one day off to grieve, I had to go back to work at the craft store; it was my first job after I moved out.

I was mopping up a spilled and abandoned Frappuccino, that customers didn’t mind watching me clean while still asking for help, when I noticed someone in the store. They had been there for hours now, but no items were in their hands. Wearing a black hooded jacket, which hid their face. They always ending up in the same aisle as me. Just looking around; sometimes it felt like they were staring at me, but I couldn’t catch them.

When my shift was over, I walked out toward my car and they followed a few yards behind me through the store. I still couldn’t make out a face. I moved faster until they stopped right outside the store doors. As I got into my car to drive home, they were still standing there, looking in my direction, as I drove off. My heart was pounding, not knowing what to make of it. I got relief the farther away I drove. Popping another Xanax when I got home to settle my nerves.

Day 3:

Michael was working today, making me smile, hoping he wouldn't notice the darkening bags under my eyes, or the signs of age that had crept up on my face recently. He was the one that could make me laugh, even when I didn't want to. Telling each other jokes was our way of passing by time at work — he made me fidgety and nervous, provoking me to giggle more than usual. Things were complicated now, since no one knew what to say to me , trying to be gentle, most of my coworkers gave me sympathetic words. Which caused me to be tense, so I took a pill before my shift started.

My shoulders began to soften as the drug started taking effect. Michael found me in the break room while I put my things in my locker. At the end of an awkward but smile filled conversation, he asked if we were still on for dinner tomorrow night. He was a light in a dark time.

Feeling pretty good that day; my shift was going by fast. The thought of my mother would come to crush me, leaving me to grab for my prescription bottle. Otherwise, the world had seemed to be going easy on me at the moment; customers were being pleasant, as were my coworkers, but then I saw that same black hoodie from behind. My chest tightened. I tried to get close enough to see their face before a customer came up to me.

“I was told you were the one I talked to on the phone about the paints.”

“Yes, that was me.” Remembering a phone conversation from earlier about a paint shipment we were supposed to get that day, but I then found out was delayed. I knew this would not go well by the look on the woman’s face.

“Well, where the paints? I couldn’t find them in the paint aisle.”

“I’m really sorry, but the shipment was delayed. I know I told you they would be in today. There isn’t anything I can do about it, but I can give you a coupon for when they do come in.” I dug around in my pockets for a coupon.

“I drove hours to come here to get this paint. Why would you lie to me? Now what am I going to do? And a coupon will not make up for it either. I want to speak to your manager right now.”

“They won’t be able to do anything either. I’m sorry I…” Before I could finish, she started shouting.

“How can you tell someone that you have a product, and then not have it in stock? Who the hell hired you? This is just shitty customer service.”

She turned around to stomp away, when I see the person in the hoodie shove her to the ground. Surprised, I said “Hey!” Even though I was a little satisfied. The woman laid there for a second, dazed, then turned to look at me. Her face was tight with anger.

“I’m telling your manager, you little bitch.” I looked around for the person in the hoodie, but they must have slinked away before she, or anyone else, could see them. I stood there with my mouth hung open.

“But it wasn’t me, I wouldn’t do that. Did you see…” she cut me off before she screamed I was a liar.

She found my manager and told him I pushed her down. They reprimanded me in front of not only the rude woman but multiple other customers and co-workers. Trying to tell my side, I was shut down, told to apologize, then sent home for the day. Suspended from work. Astonished at how quickly my manager took her side, even though what she was saying was out of character for me, all I could do was say sorry and take the punishment. That was if I wanted to keep my job.

Defeated and embarrassed, I stopped by the liquor store before going home. I bought some vodka and juice. I needed to take the edge off the day that had started so well. When I got home, I made a potent drink, but not before deciding I needed a pill too. Just to help me sleep.

Day 4:

The next day, I tried to just focus on my date that night. It was the only positive I had at the moment; having confidence it would go well. Michael was sweet, easy to talk to, and we made each other laugh. I washed down half a pill before meeting him.

We met at a romantic Italian restaurant. He looked so good in his California casual polo and dark jeans. The glow from the candlelight made his smile even more charming. We exchanged flirtatious jokes before ordering; both getting a glass of wine.

About halfway through my glass, I see the woman from the day before. She had the quintessential can-I-speak-to-your-manager haircut, styled as well as it could be, and more makeup on than her face could handle. She saw me and yelled, “You!” from across the restaurant. I had forgotten to tell Michael the story about the woman in a lighthearted way that made the whole thing seem ridiculous. Thinking he must've heard some gossip about it at work. I wanted to bury my face in my hands and hide.

The woman marched over, while dragging her husband with her. She recalled the story to us all. Her husband sheepishly looked down at his feet the whole time. She embellished a few things, called me a few colorful names, laughed about how I was suspended but should have been fired, then she walked off as if she was the clear winner of the debacle. Her husband mouthed, “Sorry” before he turned to walk away with her. I couldn’t get a word in and my face was so red I was turning maroon by the time Michael looked back at me. Unable to tell him my side, the damage was done. I ordered another glass of wine.

We got our food, and the conversation stalled. Then I saw it. The person in the hoodie was there and walking toward me. I got goosebumps realizing I still couldn’t make out a face. They sauntered over in all black. The tightness in my chest growing. They sat down at our table. I leaned in closer to see under their hood, but nothing was there.

Then words started coming out from under the hooded jacket in a low, sinister voice. “Wasn’t easy being the butt of all the jokes at school, was it?” My eyes widened. I looked over at Michael, who acted like nothing was happening. He was just sitting there eating, trying not to make eye contact with me.

“They never let up about you being the daughter of the town drunk, did they? Never invited to anything, no one ever came over. Pathetic little girl.”

Oh god, please stop, I thought to myself. The mixture of being terrified and embarrassed ran through my body. They know about me. Too frightened to move or scream. It was like it took my voice from my body. And Michael, just sitting there, not even reacting.

“And there was that one time, you actually convinced a few girls to have a sleepover for your birthday, only to have your mom tell them you still wet the bed, and by the end of the night she was singing country songs in her underwear while tripping over the dog, spilling her beer.”

They kept going. Recalling these moments, I had tried so hard to forget. How did they know these things about me? I still couldn’t find a face, even though I was looking right at them. I reached my hand out for my wineglass, hoping just another drop would make this into a funny joke I could just laugh off. The glass was empty. I dropped my head, grabbed my bag, put on my jacket, and got up to walk out.

Michael noticed me gathering my things. “Hey are you leaving? Don’t let it bother you, it’s not a big deal.” I was too distressed, too flushed in the face, beyond confused and dreadfully frightened. I ran out, hoping that thing wouldn’t follow me.

I got to my car, breathing hard through what felt like a weight on my chest. Popped a couple pills in my mouth, and thought I could drive home before they set in. As I drove, my muscles loosened. I was letting go, started considering this just a bad day, and told myself I would get over it. Driving around some winding roads, I felt someone in the seat beside me. I look over and the person in the black hoodie is in the passenger seat.

Startled, my mind races. They’re just sitting there, but before I know it, we’ve switched places. They’re behind the wheel of the car, while I’m now in the passenger side. This time, I see a face. It’s a skull — no eyes, just sockets — no skin, just bone. Their jaw is moving in a jarring fashion, and the sound of shrieking laughter is permeating out.

Sitting there in disbelief with dilated eyes, watching this thing steer the car. It’s driving well over the speed limit and taking sharp corners, whipping me back and forth, with no other cars in sight.

Then we accelerate to a sharp turn. As we get closer, I know over the guardrail is a cliff. We are going fast enough that if we hit it, the possibility of flipping over the railing is inevitable. They press on the peddle, only going faster. Then they turn this lifeless head and almost seductively looks at me. My mind floods with questions, but my sweaty palms are able to grab the wheel and make the left turn. Overcompensating, the car swerves and ends up in the side ditch of the road. I’m breathing violent breaths, and my brain is searching for comprehension. Looking around, I see I’m back in the driver’s seat of the car, with no sign of the hooded skeleton.

Thinking I must have blacked out for a second and dreamt what just happened. I couldn’t explain it to myself any other way. Deciding that I was too tired to drive, I reclined my seat to take a nap, hoping to calm down. Taking a while to be at ease, scared of what I might dream up again, trying to make sense of something that felt too real. The Xanax still settling within me; I drifted off.

Day 5:

Able to get out of the ditch and make my way home safe after resting, the next couple of days I just stay in my apartment. I watched cheerful tv shows, ate junk food, napped, cried and browsed the internet. I would tell myself it’s what I needed. A break from the stress of work, of thinking about my mom and dad, and the humiliation of my horrible date with Michael.

We had been such good friends from the start; I wished we never had the date. Remembering the days at work when he would stay a bit longer to joke about memes or play games we made up. Usually coupled with a few bursts of laughter. Coworkers would accuse us of flirting. Maybe it was like that sometimes, but most days, it just felt like he was my best friend.

Day 7:

After a couple of days alone, a friend called me to go out with her. I hadn’t been to a lounge before, but I knew I needed some time out of the house. I tried telling her about what was happening. Before I could get too far into it, she would change the subject to the fight she was having with her boyfriend. I listened and let her talk while we sipped our cocktails.

“We just need to party a little tonight, just really let loose.” She said to me while listing all the friends she was inviting out to go bar hopping.

I was hesitant. Terrified of seeing that hooded thing again, not knowing where it would show up next.

“No really, it will be chill. You can tell the group about what’s been going on with you.” Knowing she meant her friends I was on the outside of. In my mind questioning if they would care. “Really though, come on, and guess what? I can even get something a little harder than alcohol. I met a guy.” She said to me with a wink. Before I could get another word out, as I turned my head to look behind me, everything went black.

I froze; I think my heart even stopped. My friend was gone, everything was gone. In the distance ahead of me, I saw a flickering light within the darkness. It was hot. Then I heard muffled laughter. Not wanting to walk forward but not wanting to stand still either, I tiptoed toward the light.

Coming to an opening that looked like the inside of a cave. It was a bar, and everything was on fire. Even the people were on fire, but they didn’t look human. They had stark white, long faces with black holes where their eyes and mouth should be. Their faces didn’t move when they laughed, and they wore black cloaks. All of them were drinking, laughing, falling over themselves, and tripping over the burning bar stools. I trembled. Then I saw a sign for the bathroom. Not wanting anyone to see me, I sprinted inside.

Inside were plump women, also with hollow white faces, but with long snakes for hair, who turned to look at me the second I got into the room. The women were putting on lipstick in the mirror. They faced me and screeched, “Put on some makeup darling.” Holding out their hand, which grasped what looked like a vial of blood. I backed away toward the exit. Tears started forming in my closed eyes. Trying to wish it all away, I didn’t want to be here anymore; why was this happening?

When I opened my eyes, the women were gone, and the hooded skeleton stood staring at the mirror. Not needing to turn to look at me but talking to my reflection, “You never belonged here, you know, you can leave anytime.” That instant, I turned to exit the bathroom, but now everyone in the bar noticed I was there. With their sinister, fiery faces now following me. I saw back where I came in from, the outline of a door with a bright light behind it.

Darting toward it, my feet got cumbersome, as though stuck in mud. The burning people walked toward me with arms out, trying to grab me. I kept moving, getting a little closer to the door, with a slow gait. I tripped and fell onto my knees, then felt a slimy arm grab my shoulder. Able to shake it off, I got up and moved even slower, now my feet cemented to the ground. It took all my strength to lift my legs up to go forward. The ghouls right behind me, hungry to consume me. I slammed into the door and turned the doorknob, thrusting myself into the light.

I stumbled out, knocking over a cylinder filled with rolled up wrapping paper. I fell to the floor, noticing I was in Ikea now, with no memory of entering the store. The shoulder that I landed on hurt, leaving me stunned for a second. Then I hear a familiar voice. It was Michael — of course it was — asking if I was okay. Mortified, he helps me up with a worried look in his eye. Once on my feet, I focused on getting out of the store to get away from the sense of shame rising inside of me. Michael calls out something behind me, but I didn’t hear what it was.

The cool wind feels good on my sweaty face. Realizing the Ikea was within walking distance to the lounge, I find my car and drive home. My friend texts me, asking why I ditched her. The swirling thoughts inside my mind prevented me from giving a legible reply. When I got home, I crawled onto my couch and wrapped myself in a blanket. While shaking, I tried to sip on warm tea, but I couldn’t calm down. Asking myself over and over what that was, a dream? More like a nightmare, but I was fully awake. What is happening to me? Is this my life now? I didn’t know if I could handle it anymore. My teeth chattered, but I wasn’t cold; I needed to soothe my mind. Popping a couple of pills, I hoped for the best. I told myself I can be fixed — I’ll call my therapist tomorrow.

When the pills started making me sleepy, I went to bed. Relying on a good night’s rest; exactly what I needed. I got a couple hours in, when I woke in the middle of the night. Still half asleep, my room was lit by the glow of the moon. Suddenly, unable to catch my breath, thinking I may have a heart attack, I sit up to see the hooded skeleton stand in the corner of my room. He positioned his head with his eye sockets pointing at me.

Then he sprinted and leapt on top of me before I could move. He grabbed my neck with his stick thin, bony hands and shook me. With every jolt, I saw a glimpse of my own contorted evil face, where his empty one was. I hear through forced grunts, “Stop coming here.”

I closed my eyes for a second and he let up just long enough for me to crawl to the floor and try to get to the door of my bedroom. Before I could get there, he grabbed my leg. Turning over onto my back, ready to kick him off me, I felt the plunge of a knife in my chest. The electricity of pain sprang throughout my whole body. I scream out a wounded cry.

When I opened my eyes, the hooded figure was gone. My hand felt warm and sticky. Grasped inside of it the pocketknife that I kept on the nightstand. I hear myself gasp for air. Confused and frightened, I’m able to crawl to my phone, dial 911 and wait while the blood from my chest slowly ran through my fingers.

Day 8

Now I’m here, and they say I’ll be here a while. Healing not only from my stab wound, but I’m being kept for mental evaluation. It’s possible I was having a reaction to the pills, but they don’t really know. They don’t allow me any medication just yet, either. I’m having to endure the pain within my body and also my mind.

The memories of my mother come and go. While the good ones are far and in between, I think of most the last time I saw her. With a silver can in her hand, recalling a time in high school when everyone liked her, when she had the love of her life in the palm of her hand, how it all slipped away, never to return. I pitied her, but I knew that didn’t help.

None of my friends have been to visit. I got lonely and called the man from the funeral, regardless if he’s my dad or not, it didn’t matter. He’s come to see me every day that I’ve been here. It feels good to have him around; he says such nice things. He listens to me. We even have the same sense of humor. Also, to my surprise, Michael has stopped by a few times. He found out I was here through work gossip. Which I don’t think I have a job anymore, but the thought of that helps me breathe.

Michael brings me food, and we joke like we always do. He holds my hand longer than anyone ever has, and when I fall asleep, he’s still holding it when I wake up. I tell him parts of what happened, not wanting to scare him off. He listens too and still looks at me with the same warmth. I’m starting to feel better, but I’m not sure if I’ll see that skeleton figure again or if I would even live through it. And maybe I won’t.