Every once in a while I get the urge to write something creative but it’s pretty rare that I actually finish it. Yesterday on the train ride to rehearsal I was somehow reminded of an idea for a thirty to fourty five second monologue I had a while ago and rather than simply think about it like I had before, I began to write. I finished half of it on the way there and the other half on the way in to work this morning. It’s not much now (although I may decide to flesh it out into a short story at some point) but it feels good to finish some creative writing for the first time since college. This is still a rough draft of course but I like the concept. Sure I’d bet that it’s been “done before” (like everything else) but to hell with it, it’s my story and I like it.
Sixteen Times
Sixteen times over the last three weeks I’ve seen him. Each time it’s a glimpse caught in a car windows or a restaurant door but I know he’s out there. And he’s following me.
He is about five foot ten, over weight, balding and he has squinty little eyes that peer out from beneath a winter cap. Every time he finds me he asks the same question, mouthing the words;
“Who are you?”
The first time I saw him, in a shop window lurking behind a pile of dusty stereo equipment, I tried to answer him:
“I’m Ian, who are you?”
He shot me a stony glare and was gone. This wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
The next time he caught me by surprise standing on the train platform as I was riding home.
“Who are you!â€? he demanded through the glass. I could do nothing but stare dumbly as the train pulled away leaving him in the darkness behind.
That night I sat thinking of what to tell him. What could I say?
“Hi. I’m Ian and I have no idea why you’re following me so please stop it.”
No.
“Hi. I’m Ian. I’m a 26 year old actor slash computer programmer, I watch too much TV, and smoke too many cigarettes.”
No.
Our game went on for weeks. No answer would satisfy him. I began to dread leaving my apartment knowing he would surely find me.
Then, three days ago at work, while washing my hands in the bathroom he appeared again. He stood behind me, scowling with rage.
“WHO ARE YOU!!?â€?
He screamed in silence, his mouth opening wide as though to engulf me. My legs trembled and without thinking I blurted out:
“I’m you! Oh God… I’m you.”
My hands gripped the edges of the sink to stop myself from falling.
“That’s right.â€? said a rough voice from behind me, “And don’t you fucking forget it.”
I looked up to see his face, split in two by a toothy grin, dissolve slowly into nothingness.
I haven’t seen him since that day and I don’t know if I ever will again, but I haven’t forgotten him– I never will.
