will i ever know?
Eyes. There’s nobody here, and yet I feel the eyes of the world, rubbing against me like thick honey I can’t wash off. Such an odd sensation, feeling as though me and my tied up ginger hair and bandaged arms, me and my miss-matched socks and flower dress, me and my confusion are out on display.
The alleyways are stricken bare, not a person to be seen. There’s a low buzz as though people should have been here. They should have been talking and bustling about, but when I look around the street, there is no one.
Twenty-nine.
Today, there are twenty-nine of them.
Every morning I wake up with a different number of scars, and today is no different. Yesterday, there were fourteen, the day before nineteen. I don’t know where they come from, I don’t know how I get them. But they are always along my arms, always various sizes. They all burn an angry red color, with painful scabbing, except I can never feel it. It never hurts, and when I press my fingers against the raw skin it doesn’t sting or burn. It never does. I’ve learned to ignore them.
I also learned, a long time, ago that having open wounds must be an odd thing to expose to most people. Nobody ever said anything about mine, but one time a classmate went to school with a long cut on his leg and all the girls yelped and whined at the sight of blood. I don’t want that to be me, so every morning I wrap my arms in the same worn gray bandages, all along my arms.
Today is no different. I wrap the strips of cloth tight, because at least I can feel that and it makes me feel a little more real.
I live alone, and mornings are often slow, but that doesn’t mean that there is no one home. Most days, people visit me. Not for long, and they usually don’t talk much. They wander around the house with me, following me through the hallways. They hum songs sometimes, but they never touch anything, never move anything. I think it might be out of politeness, or perhaps they don’t want to intrude.
They aren’t. Intruding, I mean. I like it when people are in the house, it makes the place feel a little more alive. Other times, when friends or family come to visit, they always seem rather concerned for my well-being. That confuses me, because they just visited yesterday, and everything is fine, and isn’t that just such an out of place question?
No matter. I tie the bandages off and close the door to my bedroom. I always make sure to close the doors, because sometimes, when I don’t, they start screaming. Not too loudly, which is why the neighbors haven’t found out, but painfully enough to make my head hurt.
Once the door is closed shut, I skip down the stairs and into the little kitchen. Or at least, usually it is little and usually there is nobody here. Today, the neighborhood cat is here, though. I still haven’t figured out how the cats get into my house, but I figure there must be an open window or loose flap somewhere around the house. Last week, there was a brown tabby, but today the orange one is here. I don’t see her often, so when I spot her, I round the counter to pet her. They’ve never done me any harm or disrupted the house, so I don’t drive them out. The orange cat is so soft, she almost feels like nothing. Her velvet fur disappears under my touch a little, and I smile.
Coffee is made quickly, and I gulp it down like it’s a life source. Because it is. My life changes pretty quickly and pretty often, so morning coffee is something I have kept constant for forever. I don’t actually remember when I started drinking it in the mornings, but the warm cup of sunshine is something I can’t go without anymore. Everything can change, but at least a cup of coffee with the cats will never.
The streets are empty today. Which is odd, because yesterday they were packed. I don’t live in a large city, but it was nice to see all the people. Today, however, there are none. The alleyways are stricken bare, not a person to be seen. There’s a low buzz as though people should have been here. They should have been talking and bustling about, but when I look around the street, there is no one. It is empty, but I ignore it and begin my walk down the street.
I don’t have many errands to run today, so I’m going to get them all out of the way and then enjoy the afternoon at the local park. Maybe there will be people there. I miss seeing people, because so far today has been rather lonely.
Eyes. There’s nobody here, and yet I feel the eyes of the world, rubbing against me like thick honey I can’t wash off. Such an odd sensation, feeling as though me and my tied up ginger hair and bandaged arms. As though me and my miss-matched socks and flower dress, me and my confusion, are out on display. I feel vulnerable here, in the middle of nowhere with no one. It itches at my skin and I wrap my arms around myself. It’s okay. Today can still be a good day, even if I’m confused and lonely and, frankly, quite tired. It’s okay, I’ll make it okay. Like I always do.
The grocery store is louder than the streets, but also empty. I don’t even bother to check if there are people at the cash register, in fear that there wouldn’t be any, and go straight to the self check-out waiting for me.
It’s still weird, because the store is noisy and hot as though there should be people here, pushing and shoving for the last block of cheese. It’s off-putting, but I ignore the pounding loneliness because at least avocados were forty-percent off today. And they had my favorite cream cheese back in stock. I don’t need the big things, the little things feel realer anyways.
So I walk out of the little grocery store with two bags of various foods because I want to make a nicer dinner tonight. I don’t really remember what I had last night, but the fridge is empty, so I assume it must have been leftovers or something. I want today to be nicer though, I want today to be good.
When I make it all the way back to the apartment, I unlock the door quickly with a click and drop the groceries at the door before locking it again.
When I go back outside, the chattering and buzz of the streets runs thicker, less like honey and a little more like thick blood, but the streets are still empty. This time, I see the birds in the air and cats slinking through the streets though, so I don’t feel as empty. It’s too loud for it to just be the little critters, but life gets loud a lot for me. Sometimes it’s louder than I can hear, but other times it’s too loud and I’m pretty sure I’m making it up. Maybe today it’s supposed to be louder, but I just can’t see it. It doesn’t matter. I can deal with the loud, and I will find my own quiet. That’s what I keep telling myself.
By the time it hits noon, I’ve already begun the slow walk to the park. It’s not a large park, and it’s not busy either. It’s not weirdly empty like the rest of the city, but it’s actually quiet here. Not deathly silent, but peaceful, like the quiet rolls over everything like a thin layer of fluff. It makes everything hurt a little less in my brain.
I like it.
I walk up to the center pavilion, which is empty today, shoes making soft sounds on the gravel. The grass is vibrantly green, but not in a way that makes my eyes hurt, and the sky is toned down blueish gray that makes everything else seem brighter. I like the way the sky gives way to the earth, as though it knows that if it were any brighter, we wouldn’t be able to see anything but the sun and the clouds.
I wonder if the world will give way to me, too.
With still hands, I brush off the autumn leaves and branches left on the benches and take a seat to look out on the grass and playground. It’s empty, but this time the emptiness feels real. The quietness doesn’t feel out of place, and I think this is something that might actually be here.
And then everything goes wrong.
Suddenly the slow silence of the fields disappears and it’s buzzing again. Louder and noisier and so, too real. The people start walking in, so many, so loud, all talking or laughing or yelling. My ears ring and blood pounds through my head, because someone is waving to me. And there’s a kid on the playground that just fell.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, force myself to tone out some of the sound and ignore the rest. It’s okay. At least I can see them now.
But when I look around, there’s this one girl. Many years younger than me, maybe only six. She has bandages wrapped around her arm too, just like mine. Except hers are not tight, they are loose and fraying, unraveling at the edges.
When I squint past her, I find myself staring at another person. A man, a couple years older than me, with blue overalls and dark hair. He has glasses and a kind face and—why are his arms bandaged too? Tight, this time. Tighter than mine. I rub at my eyes and look away, because suddenly, everywhere I see there are bandages. Tight ones, loose ones, paper ones, strips of cloth that are yellowing or fraying and I can’t handle it anymore.
Picking myself up, I pull down my sleeves all the way so I can’t see my own bandaged arms, and keep my head down as I file through the crowd. Luckily, no one notices me and I slink all the way home with my arms wrapped around myself.
When I finally make it home, I close myself inside quickly, before leaning against the back of the closed door. I slide down it and hug my knees closely. I don’t know when, but tears have started slipping down my cheeks. It’s still noisy. It followed me. The noise. And I still can’t tell if it’s real.
I can never tell if they’re real or not. Everything feels real, and then there are the things that feel too real but I can never tell until they’re all over me, climbing across my arms like unwelcome ivy and slipping through the cracks of my tired mind. I can never tell, I think, is any of it real? If it weren’t, would I ever know?
This is my life. Everything is real, until it isn't. I am real, until, one day, even that won’t be so sure.
