The Silent witness

Chapter 2: The Man

I don't believe it when I see that she survived. It's not possible to be that close to a bomb when it goes off and still be breathing. 

It wasn't until a week after the bombing that I managed to find a newspaper covering the bombing, it reads,

              "Bombing in Washington, Woman Opens A Box To Find A Bomb Inside.                                                       26 year old Thea Sullivan rode a train from Washington D.C. to Philadelphia,                                           she sees mysterious box sitting next to her and opens it, only for it to explode,                                                 resulting in mass casualties. Ms. Sullivan underwent 6 different surgeries                                                 after the bombing, including plastic surgery that made her almost unrecognizable,                             police are still following leads and looking for this bomber but without a good                                       description of his face it's not seeming likely that they will find him. If anyone has                                 information about this man please call the local police department."

I'm relieved that the woman didn't see my face, not that it would matter much if she did.

I still can't believe she saw me in the first place, no one but my marks gave seen me in years, let alone talked to me like I meant nothing to them. What makes her so special, what makes her of all people able to see me?

That's what I ask myself most over the last 2 years, my mind unable to let go of it, of her face, the way she looked sitting there when I left. Why her? What does it mean, that she's able to see me?

I search for an answer for years, until one day, I see her again. But it's not her, not really. She looks different, the same but not, her face isn't the same but that's to be expected after surviving a bombing.

It isn't just her face that's different though, it's her demeanor too. I imagine that's my fault, the few who do survive are never the same after.

I watch as she reaches up to grab something from the top shelf in the supermarket, looking around for someone to help. A man approaches her, making my blood boil. He stands behind her, reaching up and grabbing what she needed. She looks up at him and smiles.

A scowl takes over my face when she places his hand on his arm and he laughs at something she says. I watch until she gives him her phone and he types her number in, then leaves.

She takes her cart to the front and checks out,picking up her bags and walking out of the oarking lot, down a neighborhood street. I follow her.

She stops when she arrives at a midsized blue Victorian house. This can't be right. I know this house, I lived in this house. How does she live in my parents old house?