Would You Kill Me?

Would you kill me?

I didn’t know. I don’t know now. I ask myself this as I continue to walk aimlessly, flashes of previous occurrences and meetings appearing in my head. I didn’t know who you were. Not really. I knew a name; Shade. I knew what you looked like; taller than me, platinum blonde hair, eyes that seemed brown in daylight, and like smouldering coals and embers in the dark and dim. You were pale, almost deathly, and quite strong looking, though you didn’t seem to have too much muscle on you.

But what do these immaterial things tell me about the man himself? Not very much.

I had spoken with you often. You seem to radiate the fact that you are an intelligent man, as if you detest the idea that someone might think otherwise. But then again, you also don’t seem to care what the people around you think. The things you say seem measured, and thoroughly planned before they even pass your lips. You make me seem like an idiot, you make me feel naïve. But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?

I didn’t really notice you at first. I remember that I saw you when I was going up in an elevator. Through the windows I caught a glimpse of your blonde hair, moving through the crowds of people like a serpent. I dismissed you then. A foolish thing, but I did; I didn’t take any more notice of you than I did of the others. A temporary, though trivial, interest. I’m almost surprised that I remember seeing you at all.

And to think that now, I would notice you from any visible distance. I can pick out your aristocratic pose wherever I am, wherever you are. But then, I suppose you don’t really try to hide anymore, do you? You stand there and watch me, as if you are being sly, but you and I both know that you’re not. It seems like you’re taunting me. Telling me that you can find me, telling me that I cannot escape your gaze no matter what I try.

Not that I haven’t tried.

When I meet you, you act as though you are surprised. Your eyes laugh at me, mock me in your obvious superiority. I fight the feeling of insignificance you attempt to swathe me in. I avoid your eyes, and then meet them as an act of defiance; the most that I can muster in such situations. Your tone is always pleasant enough, to most ears at least. There is always a shadow beneath what you say, you tease and taunt, ridicule and deride in that same tone. If I strain a little, I can sometimes hear it; humming in my ears, even though in most circumstances no one would notice it.

Did it take you long to perfect such things? You always keep your cool, remain calm, even when I yell and curse, even become violent. Were you born with that? That unwavering stare, and that air of confident control?

You always know the situation. Even when I am the one to lead you somewhere and attack you with words, or with fists; you always know exactly how I will react. No matter how much I strive to surprise you. No matter what I do.

…but I do remember that one time.

That one time that I surprised you. I know you would bring it up if I hadn’t; if you had calculated such a reaction and expected it, not shown that expression to me...

At first I only saw glimpses of you. Here and there, when I was attending press conferences, or simply walking in the park. I paid no heed to you for those first few months. I only occasionally glanced your way, frowning in recognition before I decided to leave it alone. The whole thing seemed like a coincidence for a while. I shouldn’t have been so naïve. I shouldn’t have just ignored it. But I did, and now I can only wish I could change those times and find some way to stop your eyes from falling upon me. So...

...I wouldn’t have to live with this.

When I spoke to you for the first time… you found me sitting on a wooden bench, beneath a lit and flickering streetlamp. I remember that it made your hair glow, made your eyes appear to blaze crimson. You fixed those peculiar eyes on me, and asked for a cigarette, which I didn’t mind handing over, even lighting it for you as you leant against the streetlamp and continued to watch me. It took only a moment for me to remember you, but I didn’t say anything; what was the point? If you’d wanted something, you would have already asked about or done it. At least... that’s what I thought at the time.

Do you remember that time you met me at the pier? I spotted you long after I realised I was being watched; that prickling paranoia that made me shiver and glance about for a source. The trepidation I felt as I scanned the crowds for you. Not necessarily you, or course. But even then, I’d had my suspicions. You greeted me with a small wave, your eyes a deep brown in the sunshine. You smiled, not a kind smile as you probably intended, but it made me wary. Still, I didn’t move when you approached me, nor did I resist when you linked your arm with mine and led me through the busy streets. You seemed to decide you wished to dress me. At this point I didn’t even know your name, and I demanded it after being trussed up in a dozen or so stores, my old clothes in the bag you carried in your free hand. That gained me some very odd looks from the passing people too. I didn’t really know what to think of it. The entire situation was alien, strange; though I had no will to really leave, I was too curious to do that.

I still wonder what it was you saw in me.

You could have chosen millions of others in this country alone. So… why me? But I have often told you that you never answer a straight question with a straight answer. To which you usually reply; “I will do so, only when you have given me a straight question”.

You did not tell me your name for a long time. My ‘affectionate’ nicknames had come to vary, from “stalker” to “my perverted bastard of a stalker”. You seemed to like that. You smiled slightly wider whenever I said it. I still sometimes say it, when I’m annoyed with you, or when I want to make a point.

Not much can seem to distract you from me. When I’m in your company, you seem to take delight in watching me, no matter what I’m doing. It used to unnerve me. It used to make me nervous. I sometimes stormed away from you when I asked you not to and you only smiled. You have an odd smile. It’s a smile that can invoke all sorts of different reactions from the people around you, depending on the situation. I have come to both love and hate that smile. Sometimes it seems affectionate, sometimes hungry, sometimes it seems cruel and mocking… but it looks like the same smile, so I could never understand how it seems to invoke such varied emotions each time it is displayed.

You have a quick tongue too, don’t you? You can manipulate someone into doing anything you wish them to, without them even realising it. You seem to delve into their thoughts, tangling a web of deceit, based on a cracked foundation of truth, filled in with your own sharp wit. I have seen you do it often.

You walk through the streets and shops like a king, not seeming to notice the heads that you turn, and the attention you gain from every small gesture and word.

Of course my slight curiosity soon disappeared, to be replaced with an odd feeling of familiarity. I don’t think I would feel right if you should suddenly get up and disappear. I would be looking over my shoulder, frowning and wondering where you were. I suppose I’ve gained a kind of comfort from your always being there.

Do you remember when you saved me from that mugger? I think he had it in his head that the slightly drunk, exhausted, but well dressed gentleman almost falling over outside the bar was good fortune. I hadn’t even registered his presence when he dragged me into that alley. I hardly heard the demands and threats he made, barely noticed the gun in one of his hands. He was pressing me to the wall when you threw him off. Did you feel guilty that you were the reason I was drinking? Did you feel culpable when you saw my drunken exhaustion being taken advantage of? Or were you simply being possessive again? I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

I can remember a certain day, travelling on the tram with you. Sitting in the little wooden bench seats and staring at the slowly moving backdrop outside. I remember that we spoke of lighter things than usual, though still interlaced with strange philosophy and morality, the kinds of things we never usually talked about. Our conversation lasted until it was dark, when we had finished our meal in that fancy restaurant and we were walking towards my apartment building. I remember that. It’s a good memory.

Naturally, there are bad ones too.

I remember becoming particularly violent with you once. Not that I didn’t do that often, but this still sticks out in particular in my mind. I managed to lose you for a while, and by the time you found me, I was pretty drunk and sitting in a dingy bar; one I never would have graced normally, and that’s the reason that I chose it then. You obviously knew I was drowning my sorrows in alcohol; I did it often enough, but this time was worse. I glared at your approach, your body seeming to sway before my eyes; everything was blurred and off-colour. I felt like the stool I was sitting on was rocking back and forth. I think I snapped something cruel at you, I remember that you flinched when I said it, and then your expression hardened. You paid for all I had drunk, and took me by the arm, half carrying me from that place. I can’t remember the journey home at all. But I remember that I hit you almost as soon as we went through my door. I do wonder how you got us into my apartment, but then again; it’s not very hard to steal from a drunk, is it? You were unprepared for the blow and staggered sideways, sending me an odd look; you seemed nearly disappointed. I tried to hit you again and missed, then I caught you around the face. We sparred sometimes when we met, but this was completely different; you were obviously expecting more stylish and graceful movements, but that was where you slipped up. I was too drunk for that. I just threw whatever punches seemed right at the time. When I woke up in the morning I was in bed, and you were sitting in the chair by my side, fast asleep. That was the first time I’d seen you asleep. You were covered with cuts and bruises.

You used to kiss my hand when you greeted or left me. You’d take my left hand and kiss the palm, then the wrist, and finally the knuckles, one by one. It used to embarrass me when you did it. I used to try and pull away. I used to hate you doing it around other people, since I received odd looks because of it. I think my embarrassment only made you want to do it more. It seemed that way. You were very open with your affection, once I stopped swearing and telling you to go away whenever you came too close, that is.

I remember when I was depressed once; my company was going through some rough times, and some of the original benefactors were pulling out, I sat on my balcony and watched the sun go down. You seemed to appear out of nowhere, setting down a chair beside mine to watch over the city with me. I asked you to leave, but you wouldn’t; you told me that you wouldn’t allow me to wallow in my own misery. And you sat there all night with me, without saying another word.

Then when you were depressed; I remember that you came to me as always, but your face held a kind of repression of feelings. That was how I knew there was something wrong. You wouldn’t tell me what it was; you wouldn’t say anything about it. I told you that if you were going to lurk around me, you should at least tell me something.

So you did.

And what you told me was your reason for following me; the reason you always watched me. The Reason. Why it was that you had such an obsession with me. Your ‘never-ending infatuation’. Your raison d'être.

I left you. I just walked away. I left you in your melancholy, and didn’t look back.

You began to retreat into your old habits of watching me from a distance. But I was too well tuned to your presence; I knew you were there.

It made me angry. I was furious with your uncharacteristic space giving. I saw you standing beneath a tree in the park. It was raining hard. The air around me was cloying and thick with mist. The trees soaked the people beneath them, trying to gain some shelter. You were soaked through. So was I. I stood out in the open and looked back at you, tilting my head and frowning. Your expression was completely unreadable. You were drowning embers.

This was when I surprised you.

The memory is clear for me. I can remember every step and movement I made. I can remember the thick rain that ran through my hair, making me shiver with the chill as it trickled down my back. I can remember the soft mist that caressed my face; the near translucent clouds of white that obscured everything except you… I remember the look on your face.

When I surprised you... my little victory.

You watch me when I sleep. I know you do. You think I don’t, I know that by the way you look at me when you greet me in the mornings.

I wonder sometimes if you even have a home to go to. You seem to spend so much time with me, it seems more and more doubtful, though logically I know you must. I remember asking you about it once, but you simply smiled and shook your head; like a mother with a child who asks silly questions.

Your favourite season is winter. You said that you like the snow, the chill of the days and nights, the glistening of the spider webs in every doorway. You like the icicles that hang from the trees we stood beneath in the spring. You like the change, the silver and white that erupts from the falling colour after autumn is gone.

It’s winter now.

You called yourself my shadow once… do you remember? I do. I recall those words often, reflecting on how true they seem to be.

Shadows disperse in the harsh light. But they are never really gone, as long as their subject remains.

These are the things that run through my head now. The ideas and images that I can’t seem to banish from my thoughts. The clinging ideals that I both love and despise.

You told me that your reason for following me, is that you wish to kill me.

Well...

Here we are Shade.

And here is the question that I wish to ask you...

Would you kill me now?