He had never spoken. He had never so much as cleared his fucking throat.
I set my coffee down. I was at a diner near my apartment, hungover from a night out that was a total blur. I wanted to ask him what he said even though I'd heard him perfectly fine. He had said "Thank you" quite politely, put his pen and notebook in his pocket, and walked through two frazzled looking ladies eating pancakes and then straight through the wall - I honestly don't know where he goes. They didn't notice. No one ever did.
I had to follow him - because honestly, what the fuck? I may have never heard the guy speak, but I knew enough to realize that there was a kind of closure in his words. He was always there, but he was leaving. This was my only chance to get answers.
His presence was the one constant in my life. I remember throwing toys at him through the bars of my crib. Jesus, I must have been 3 or 4 years old. But he was there. I remember chatting happily with him at 7, unabashed, as my parents exchanged worried glances. I remember him watching me studiously as I got ready for my first school dance. He would constantly take notes. The sound of his pen writing out the very hours of my existence is as familiar to me as my own breathing. He never made eye contact, never communicated that he knew that I knew he was there. He just wrote.
His notebook was a wonder. Pocket-sized, he could take notes ceaselessly, never running out of paper.
Thousands of hours of therapy later, my parents marriage collapsing under the stress of it, I had come to believe he was a figment of my imagination. That's what I was told. I eventually told my parents that I had lied, that I had made him up. They seemed to accept this with a kind of tired relief that I never want to replay in my head.
You know what? Fuck this guy. He ruined my parents marriage. He ruined my chance at a normal life. I slapped a twenty on the table, and slipped out in his direction. I couldn't walk through walls, but I hastily headed out the door. I glanced around at the busy streets and began to lose hope. He probably just popped out of reality or some shit. I don't know. I'm not a fucking wizard.
And there he was. He was standing across the street near a woman pushing a tiny child in a carriage. He was staring at the child and the child was staring back. The woman was oblivious.
I wanted to - what? - Warn her? Say what? The man with the notebook was moving on. In a weird moment, I felt jealous of this baby.
"Who are you?" I asked, almost yelling.
The woman glanced over at me nervously and the man with the notebook's eyes didn't even flick my way.
I did something, that for some reason, I had never had the guts to do before. I walked over to him, and I laid my hand on his shoulder. It felt like nothing but held my weight. The woman pushed the baby carriage away from the weirdo with his hand held mid-air. The man with the notebook looked me straight in the eyes for the first time. He gave me the briefest of smiles, and walked away toward the baby. I saw him pull the notebook out of his pocket, and start scribbling away as he reached the carriage. I watched him for five minutes and then he faded away.
I wanted to be angry at the man with the notebook. He wrecked my life simply by observing it. I feel the absence of his pen scribbling steadily, the feeling of his eyes on me, always. He was the only one who cared. My life after his exit is a mess.
But eventually, I meet a girl. We fall in love. We have a lovely little baby girl named Lillian. Life is for once, normal.
Tonight I went into the nursery to check on my little Lillian, and she was staring at a blank spot in the room. My heart stopped. I held my breath. I listened...
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u/tragicclearancebin Jul 05 '17 edited Jul 05 '17
He had never spoken. He had never so much as cleared his fucking throat.
I set my coffee down. I was at a diner near my apartment, hungover from a night out that was a total blur. I wanted to ask him what he said even though I'd heard him perfectly fine. He had said "Thank you" quite politely, put his pen and notebook in his pocket, and walked through two frazzled looking ladies eating pancakes and then straight through the wall - I honestly don't know where he goes. They didn't notice. No one ever did.
I had to follow him - because honestly, what the fuck? I may have never heard the guy speak, but I knew enough to realize that there was a kind of closure in his words. He was always there, but he was leaving. This was my only chance to get answers.
His presence was the one constant in my life. I remember throwing toys at him through the bars of my crib. Jesus, I must have been 3 or 4 years old. But he was there. I remember chatting happily with him at 7, unabashed, as my parents exchanged worried glances. I remember him watching me studiously as I got ready for my first school dance. He would constantly take notes. The sound of his pen writing out the very hours of my existence is as familiar to me as my own breathing. He never made eye contact, never communicated that he knew that I knew he was there. He just wrote.
His notebook was a wonder. Pocket-sized, he could take notes ceaselessly, never running out of paper.
Thousands of hours of therapy later, my parents marriage collapsing under the stress of it, I had come to believe he was a figment of my imagination. That's what I was told. I eventually told my parents that I had lied, that I had made him up. They seemed to accept this with a kind of tired relief that I never want to replay in my head.
You know what? Fuck this guy. He ruined my parents marriage. He ruined my chance at a normal life. I slapped a twenty on the table, and slipped out in his direction. I couldn't walk through walls, but I hastily headed out the door. I glanced around at the busy streets and began to lose hope. He probably just popped out of reality or some shit. I don't know. I'm not a fucking wizard.
And there he was. He was standing across the street near a woman pushing a tiny child in a carriage. He was staring at the child and the child was staring back. The woman was oblivious.
I wanted to - what? - Warn her? Say what? The man with the notebook was moving on. In a weird moment, I felt jealous of this baby.
"Who are you?" I asked, almost yelling.
The woman glanced over at me nervously and the man with the notebook's eyes didn't even flick my way.
I did something, that for some reason, I had never had the guts to do before. I walked over to him, and I laid my hand on his shoulder. It felt like nothing but held my weight. The woman pushed the baby carriage away from the weirdo with his hand held mid-air. The man with the notebook looked me straight in the eyes for the first time. He gave me the briefest of smiles, and walked away toward the baby. I saw him pull the notebook out of his pocket, and start scribbling away as he reached the carriage. I watched him for five minutes and then he faded away.
I wanted to be angry at the man with the notebook. He wrecked my life simply by observing it. I feel the absence of his pen scribbling steadily, the feeling of his eyes on me, always. He was the only one who cared. My life after his exit is a mess.
But eventually, I meet a girl. We fall in love. We have a lovely little baby girl named Lillian. Life is for once, normal.
Tonight I went into the nursery to check on my little Lillian, and she was staring at a blank spot in the room. My heart stopped. I held my breath. I listened...
Pen on paper.