STALKER

Chapter 15 - 27th May

This was a pain of a chapter to write.  I'm not sure I've gotten what I wanted to say written down.  I was trying to explain my idea of a new memory being incorporated into an existing lifespan.  Not sure if I did that.   May get edited.

It's 3 am and the end of my shift at the club. Standing in the alleyway behind the club, sheltering in the doorway I can, at last, have a cigarette, the first one for hours. It gives me enough of a buzz to wake me up. The club was loud and busy, I lost track of how many cocktails I made and the beers I pulled. Normally, I thrive on that sort of vibe. I'd be in my element, chatting and schmoozing with the customers. I've mastered the "fake smile", I can do it in my sleep, and I can banter with the best of them while on autopilot. But tonight, I just couldn't focus. I feel like I'm split between two worlds, my body's here going through the motions but my head's somewhere else.

I check my phone. I'd missed a call from Dad and there were three messages from Sarah. What did she want? I'm quite happy being single again, she did me a favour by ending things. I know, I'm a cold bastard. The more I think about it, I'm better off alone, perfectly happy with superficial, expendable relationships with a short shelf life. I have no problem with letting go of people...I think that's probably unhealthy but that's how I am. I've never felt strongly about anything or anyone, for long anyway. I don't know if that makes me shallow or just heartless...whatever. My family is as far as my deep emotions go, strangely that now include the grumpy puff of smoke who I share a house with.

A gust of wind sends a blast of rain into the doorway, straight into my face, shocking me back to my present situation. I'm knackered and groan out of frustration at the thought of my umbrella hanging nice and dry from my bedroom doorknob. To top it off I'd parked my car a block away because I was running late. The rain is getting heavier just to piss me off.....karma is having a giggle at my expense. The usually quiet alleyway, lit by the lights from the main street has transformed into an obstacle course of overflowing gutters and potholes. I don't want to get soaked again. Hmmm...on second thought, does it actually count if it was in 1942. I'd gotten drenched when I dashed away from Jules in Toeneren. I'd jumped back to the spot I'd left a second before, with 80-year-old raindrops dripping off my cap and coat onto my 2022 floor. What a freaky thought. It feels like I exist in a world of comparisons these days, now and then; real and re-lived.

Bugger it, flicking my soggy cig into the nearest puddle and I step out in the rain. I can't even muster the energy to run. I'm literally drenched within minutes of stepping gout into the street. As I make my way to the car, all I can hear is the splashing sound of my boots as I walk; the rain pounding the pavement around me. I feel it run through my hair and down my face like icy fingers. I realize for me, rain will now, always, be associated with a certain place and time, of an unlikely meeting, of a young and brave John Morrison.

Finally, at the car, I jumped in, regardless of the fact I'm soaking wet. I land with a squelch. I slump back into the seat, I could so easily fall asleep. I'm in two minds about whether I should go home and go to bed or go to Grandmother's house. I have to start calling it my place. That decides it. There's something I need to do, that's been niggling at me all day. I set off for my place.

.....

I've acquired some strange habits lately, and anyone that doesn't know my situation would justifiably think I've lost the plot. By my situation I mean, having a ghost as a housemate. A ghost that has become a little too comfortable living, can you call it that, here. So now, when I enter the house at night, I fling the front door open, stand in the doorway, and carefully reach inside for the switch to the hall light. A couple of times, lately, I've been ambushed by Granddad, when I've walked around the house in the dark. He likes to blend in with the darkness, just stand there and wait for me to walk into him. It is totally unnerving to pass through him or bits of him. The sensation he gives off goes bone-deep and it takes ages to shake off...it makes my skin crawl thinking about it. It's like nails scratching on a blackboard, or seeing a cockroach on the food you just took a mouthful of, gross, disgusting, hooooorrible. The dead and the living should never NEVER overlap. There is one positive, he seems to have lost interest in commandeering me to get his jollies, now he's just being a pain. I think he thinks he's funny. Not that you can tell too much from his wispy, dark face but I get the impression he thinks it's hilarious freaking me out. If I wasn't afraid of the dark before, I am now.

He's getting cocky, getting way too comfortable here.

I take off all my wet gear and slip into some dry clothes I've left at the house. I stand in the middle of the kitchen and wish I'd thought of getting some takeaway. I'm starving, next best thing  is a beer.  I grabbed one from the fridge  and head back to my room. The house is cold tonight. I turn on the heater and I settle on the bed and wait. Granddad hasn't appeared yet and I'm hoping it's one of those rare times he's off somewhere brooding. For a change, I would really like him to make an appearance. I finish the beer and have one last cigarette for the night.  I can barely keep my eyes open and I can feel myself dozing off. It's nearly 4 in the morning, I'm done. It looks like it'll have to wait for another time.

I'd just climbed into bed when I see his silhouette in the doorway, set against the light from the hall, flickering and swirling as he does when he's edgy. Sigh...crap timing Granddad. I got up again.

I turn on the light, grab my phone and sit on the bed. I patted the space beside me. It was meant as a friendly gesture but he didn't move. He just looking at me. I wonder if he's aware of the new memory I created last night. If it was slipped seamlessly into his lifespan as if it was always there. Does he feel more of a connection between us, I do. I feel emotional looking at him, recalling the image of a young John Morrison, with bright eyes and a great smile.  A version of him that's long gone. I patted the space beside me again. He approaches  me cautiously, and eventually sits down, making  a point of keeping a distance between us. His smoky innards are spinning furiously.

"I thought you might like this." I swiped my phone and brought up the first photo. I held out the phone to him. "Isn't that the best?" My eyes are tearing up. I wasn't an emotional guy until my powers kicked in and Granddad arrived...now pfft.

The photograph was the one of us sitting outside the cafe. It's hilarious, I look like I've almost got him in a head lock, with a huge grin on my face. The young John Morrison is wide-eyed, his mouth gaping open in surprise.  We look so much alike it's bizarre. In the photograph there's only two years difference between us...how weird is that. We look like buds giving each other a bro hug on a night out.  It makes me grin like an idiot looking at it.  As Granddad hasn't got a face I have no idea what he's thinking.

"By the way....it was great meeting you." I looked over at him and he's leaning close to the screen,  his hand floating towards it until his finger tips touch our faces.