Telling Time

Chapter One

A/N Thanks everyone for all your support! I wrote this with a friend (givealittlelove), so she gets half the credit.

Somebody is watching me.

I can feel it, I can always feel it. Someone, or something, is watching my every move, marking it down and remembering everything I do carefully. I can feel their presence, tickling the back of my neck and making me shiver.

I run.

Sprinting has always calmed me down. I can’t imagine not running, it’s what works off extra energy and keeps my emotions contained. It’s what gets me out of trouble most of the time. It’s what keeps me alive.

I run, not really aware of where I’m going but letting my feet carry me instead. My mind races: Who was watching me? And why? And how did I know someone was watching me?

The foggy summer night promises rain and thunderstorms. Clouds hang overhead, like a blanket covering the sky. Hiding something.

I slow down. Sandals, even without a heel, are hard enough to run in: Blisters begin forming on the back of my heel and the balls of my feet feel tight and sore, even from a little jog.

I slow down to a walk, but I don’t stay walking for long. Raindrops begin falling, hitting the ground one by one. I check my watch: 11:53. I better get home or Mom will wonder where I’ve been.

I pull off my sandals, worn on the bottom and beginning to split along the seam and carry them instead. If I want to get home before midnight, I’ll have to pick up the pace.

I run barefoot the rest of the way, shoes in hand, rain pattering lightly against my skin and relieving the heat.

By the time I get home it’s minutes before 12. I throw my weight against our front door: locked. Crap. After sorting through my pockets’ contents, I finally find the housekey, along with some loose change, a few tissues, and a pack of gum.

I walk in quietly. At first I’m relieved to be home, but then I feel it again. It’s oddly quiet, even though the washer should be running; Mom always puts in the laundry at 10 so it will be ready the next morning. I carefully take a step off of the welcome mat, and when nothing happens, I go to the kitchen, where mom is usually sitting, sleeping, and holding a cold cup of tea in her hands,  but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. The kettle’s on the stove though, which means she was here at around 10:30. She must have gotten distracted by something, but what? And why hasn’t she returned to her midnight habit?

I begin to worry. Something already had felt amiss, and the fact that mom was not following her usual midnight routine is a bad sign.

“Mom!”

My voice sounds loud and unnatural in the eerie silence. No response.

I drop my shoes and jacket in the doorway. The best thing to do is to stay calm. Check the whole house. If you don’t find her, call the police, I think to myself. I go to the basement. She’s not there, so I start the laundry. If she comes back she might as well have clean laundry to wear. I check the family room. She isn’t there either, so I turn off the muted TV. Next I check her room, my room, and the bathroom. No, no, and no. I’m tired and I know I can’t keep it up much longer. I go to my room and fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

                                                         * * * * *

The next morning, I hear the kettle whistling down on the stove. I jump out of bed, and run downstairs to see who’s there. And there she stood, bustling about the kitchen making herself tea and flipping pancakes.

“M-mom?” I ask tentatively, taking a step closer to where she was cooking.

“Sweetie, where were you last night? I waited up for you until about one, and then decided to go to bed. Hon, you said you’d be home by midnight,” she says.

“W-what? But-” I stutter. Mom sighs and looks back at her pancakes. “You know what? It doesn’t really matter. Just don’t do it again. Sit, I made you some pancakes.” And I do, wondering what the hell happened last night.