Stare

It started small, the sort of sensation that niggles at the back of your mind but that you hardly register consciously. Then came the pressure. The prickling of my skin and the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched. We’ve all been there.

But for me, it never went away. I started noticing more and more that, from somewhere, eyes were on me. I was always being watched. Always. But no matter how much I searched, no matter how frantically I looked about, I could never see where my stalker - or stalkers - were observing me from.

I can only assume that they are some distance away. Using binoculars or a telescope, or watching me through a camera on a drone. I don’t know why they have taken such an interest in me. But I know they’re there. I’ve always had a sharp intuition and been naturally observant. Perhaps I’ve been a bit overanxious in my life, but I’ve never been crazy. I’m not crazy. Someone is watching me. Someone is always watching me.

The first time I noticed - really noticed and became aware of the consistency of the presence - seemed harmless enough at first. I was just walking down the street. It could have been any of the other numerous people on the pathway keeping tabs on me for any number of inane reasons. But as I kept walking and the people around me changed, the feeling didn’t. It became unsettling. Not knowing where it was coming from only made it worse.

Then came the escalation. The constant creeping sensation of eyes being on me at all times. I felt them watching me while I was behind the counter at work. I wondered which of the patrons I was handing bottles to was the one. Was it the young man my own age, gearing up for a party? The middle-aged couple who couldn’t decide what bottle of wine they wanted for their anniversary dinner? Maybe it was the little old lady who came in suspiciously often, who I wanted to suggest getting help to but couldn’t bring myself to actually confront in case I was making a mistake. Or maybe it’s none of them.

Maybe it’s all of them.

Every day it only gets worse. The incessant invisible stare won’t leave me alone. It isn’t just at work. When I’m out with friends, I feel it. I mentioned it once, but nobody else seemed aware. But I know I’m not imagining things.

They watch me at work. They watch me when I socialise. I can feel them there. Even when I’m in my own home, the invisible eyes follow. When I cook. When I clean. When I’m watching TV. When I’m trying to sleep. When I shower. Even in my most private, personal moments I feel my voyeur’s eyes piercing into me from some unseen location, taking some perverse pleasure in observing the mundane minutia of my life. 

What do they want from me? Why me? What is so interesting about me? I’m nobody special. I don’t want to be special to anyone. Not like this. I just want to be left alone. Left in peace. I would kill for just a few minutes where I couldn’t feel them watching.

How do they even have the time? Don’t they have to work? Don’t they have to sleep too? Aren’t they human too? There has to be more than one of them. The alternative is too insane to consider. And I. Am. Not. Insane. 

But I think they must want me to be. They have to want to drive me crazy. They must want to push me until I do something extreme, something worth watching. Why else would they be doing this to me? I’m nobody. But they don’t seem to get bored. Or tired. They have so much more willpower than I do. 

So fine. They win. I’ll give them something crazy to watch. Then they will finally leave me the fuck alone. Then I’ll be free. I’ll be safe. Alone. At peace.

I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to write like this again. I don’t know if I’ll need or want to. All I know is I’m taking these cans of fuel. I’m taking these matches. I’m getting in my car and I’m going to give my watchers a show they will never forget. I’m going to make a blaze so bright they’ll be blinded and they’ll never look at me or anyone else ever again.