Chasing Shadows

  -1Chasing Shadows

  By Liana Hakes-Rucker

  Copyright 2011 Liana Hakes-Rucker

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashword Edition, License Notes

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  Chapter One

  Hot water beats on my shoulders and pools around my feet. The drain is slow again. The bottom of the tub is slimy with soap scum from yesterday's shower, and the one before that, and the one before that. How long has it been since the drain worked? I'm rinsing my hair now. Water is up to my ankles. I don't mind. I appreciate a foot soak. The soft thud, boom, thud of a stereo pulses through the wall from my neighbor's apartment. I close my eyes. Boom, da, da, thud, bang, bang. It must be a video game. The bass beats in time to my heart, or else my heart adjusts itself to the music. The shower curtain sticks to my arm as I turn my face into the spray. The thump, thump, pulse gets a little louder. Jesus, how can that guy even hear anything over that game?

  "Ah!" soap in my eye. "Fuck!" I taste soap in my mouth. Wet plastic jostles against my shoulder as I rub my eye under the water. Pulse, pulse, boom. I can't even hear the water sloshing around my legs. Pulse, pulse. I blink my eyes open just as the lights flicker. No, that wasn't a flicker. Something moved in front of the bulb. I begin to turn when, boom, thud, thud, the curtain closes around me. I feel arms, like a meat vice, restraining me through the plastic. Pulse, pulse, wriggle, kick. Slosh, I am aware of my legs beating against tile and porcelain. All I can see is wet plastic just before the rip of the shower curtain is felt, not heard. I scream, short and angry. Bang, thud, boom, crash. No one hears my scream, not even me.

  The sound of a siren cuts through the uneven rhythm of the video game. My eyes pop open. I am confused and wet and alone in the dark. "Ahrg, Christ." I recognize the siren as my alarm. It must be 6 P.M. I reach for it but my arms are pinned to my sides. The sheet is wrapped tight around my body, so is the blanket, so is the dark. I am soaked with sweat. "Ugh." I roll over, twisting and groaning. My arm is asleep. It feels as if it’s made of concrete and Play Doh. The siren alarm is underscored by the bass from next door creeping through the walls.

  "Fuck." I moan again. Finally I work an arm free, not my best arm but good enough to end the crisis. My heart is still pounding from the dream. As I reach my phone to stop the noise, a shadow dashes against the wall. I hold my breath for a beat. My legs are still trapped in the bedding. I silence the alarm and when it quiets, its blue glare goes with it, leaving me light blind. Pulse, pulse, boom goes the neighbors game. With a few more desperate flails I unwind myself from the bed. I stand up in the pitch black room. My limbs tingle as blood pours back into them. I'm afraid to turn on a light and I am angry at my fear.

  The cold air of the room hits my sweaty skin giving me the shivers. A bead of sweat eases down my back. It feels like a bug crawling under my shirt. Still dazed, I walk with intentional slowness towards the light. It’s a tall floor lamp. It stands by the wall switch, that doesn't work, for the overhead fixture, which is probably a fire hazard. I twist the knob on the lamp twice and the room is cast into dull relief. I blink several times. It doesn't seem nearly bright enough in here. The throb, throb, bang from the neighbor is making my sweat vibrate. "Jesus." I say and run a hand down my face. I see it again: a shadow darting off to my left. I turn, breathing evenly. Nothing is there. The urge to speak to the empty room is strong but that's the kind of thing people do when they're frightened, and I refuse to give in. Instead, I suck in a breath and pad casually to the second room of my three room apartment, the kitchen/living room. Here I proceed to turn on all three lamps, the two by the couch and the clip on office-style lamp I keep on the cupboard over the stove. None of the built in lights in my apartment really work. When and if they turn on, they make worrisome crackling noises. That's why I use lamps, even in the bathroom, which is where I go now, twisting on the floor lamp that is the twin of the one in the bedroom.

  Thump, thump, boom, da, da, boom. The music is louder in here. I eye the tub and fight the urge to shudder. I step up to it, looking in. Dry swirls of dirty soap scum line the bottom, caking in the edges of the floor mat. Yeah I know, it's gross. I hug my arms to my chest and am startled by the movement I make in the mirror. I look at myself for a moment, pink shorts, white tank top sticking to an American excess of pasty, pale skin. My long hair is tied up in a top knot. The seven inch roots are light brown, and the ends, which used to be red, are now more blond than anything. My hazel eyes are ringed with dark circles. My face is decorated with a few zits which stand out in stark relief against the heat-flushed, blotchy tones of my face. Thump, thump, boom. the mirror vibrates with the video game next door.

  "Goddamn." I breathe. I take the four steps necessary to get back to the bedroom. Here I straighten the sweaty sheets and grab a pair of jeans off the floor. I give them the sniff test. They pass. It takes me a second to locate a clean t-shirt and underwear. Now it’s back to the bathroom for a shower, a real one this time.

  I can't quite muscle my way around the fear of shower time abductions. That's why I only draw the shower curtain half way so I can see out. Never the less, I have to strain to keep from visualizing someone lurking just the other side of it. Every time the plastic touches my skin I take deep breaths and refuse to be scared. Rinsing my hair with my eyes open proves to be impossible. Closing my eyes brings fear creeping into my belly. Fear triggers anger. Anger leads to the ultimate act of silly fear defiance: I wash my face in the hot shower while listening to the thumping sounds from next door. It’s exactly like my dream except I can hear my feet slosh as the water builds up around them. Just to prove that I am not, and never have been scared, I keep my eyes closed. An angelic expression of calm is plastered to my face as I shut the water off. I am standing here like this, eyes closed and naked, water up to my ankles in the half open shower, when I hear an exhale and feel a little gust of hot breath on my neck just below my right ear.

  "FUCK!" I yell at the top of my lungs. I fling my eyes open and snap my head around. Nothing... no one.

  Bang, bang, bang. "Keep it down over there!" It’s a man's voice, my neighbor. He's yelling through the wall.

  "Blow me!" I holler back. It feels good to yell at someone real. Pulse, pulse, boom goes the video game.

  I step out of the shower, dry and dress in record time. I run a brush through my two-toned hair and pocket a hair band for later use. After slathering some way-too-expensive-no-where-near-effective-enough zit cream on my face I step into the main room and deliberately pause for several seconds, forcing myself not to hurry. Without looking into any of the corners, I gather up my wallet, keys, cell phone, netbook, netbook cord, spiral notebook, e-reader, pens and cigarettes. I throw them all into my badly abused messenger bag. I spend about six minutes looking for a lighter that works. I see another couple of shadow twitches but chalk it up to having already let myself get scared. Choking down the urge to yell at the apartment, I shove my arms into a dark blue hoodie, shrug on my shoulder bag and step to the door.

  I am always just a little surprised to find that it is still light out. I work a night shift, and have foil taped over my windows so that I can sleep during the day. It’s like stepping out from a matinee every time I go outside. I blink several times and check my phone: 6:30PM.

  "Damn I'm going to be early... damn I'm talking to myself." I smirk, as I turn
the deadbolt with my key. I run a hand through my wet hair and try to shake the creepy feelings from my dream. Standing on the little porch outside my third story apartment, I look over the back alley at the slowly darkening October sky. My place is one of six tiny apartments carved indelicately out of what used to be a single family residence, back when people in this neighborhood could afford to own whole houses.

  I slip a cigarette out of my pack and light it. I'm just putting my lighter back in my pocket when it hits me... What day is it? With this question comes a barrage of doubts: Do I work today? Did I work yesterday? I think I worked yesterday. Did I sleep just one day or did I sleep through work yesterday? Fuck, what day is it? As usual when these moments happen, I am torn evenly between panic and apathy. With a deep drag to prepare, I dig out my phone and check the calendar. According to the calendar it’s my day off, but once the doubts have surfaced there’s nothing for it but to check and re-check. “Goddamn it.” I mutter, sitting down on the top step of my fire escape porch. I troll through the numbers in my phone looking for Ashley’s. Ashley is a co-worker who usually knows what day it is, and may even have a copy of the work schedule. The same work schedule I entered laboriously into the calendar of my phone, but I can’t trust that now. As I hit the call button I see a small black bird teeter into and out of the corner of my vision. I'm not sure if it’s a real bird or just another shadow thing. I set my jaw and take a deep drag on my cigarette. Does it do any good to pretend not to see them?

  “Hey, hot shot.” Ashley answers.

  I exhale, modulating my voice for ‘cheerful’. “S’up, Buttercup?”

  “We’re still going to breakfast right?”

  “Of course...” That doesn’t answer my question, as night shifters can have breakfast at any time of day, before work, after work, days off, at 1AM, any time.

  “You forgot.”

  “No I didn’t forget.” I lie. “Not breakfast anyway. Um...”

  “What, are you cancelling?” Ashley sounds resigned.

  “No, Jesus. I’m not cancelling. I just don’t know if you mean before work or after work. I didn’t remember. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “I meant today, like you suggested yesterday.”

  “You’re not helping. Look, do I work today or not?”

  “Oh my God.”

  There is a pause while Ashley decides whether or not to help me. I take another deep drag. I can still hear the game but only just, mpf, mpf, mpf. “Well?” I prompt.

  “Why don’t you just copy the schedule into your phone?”

  I'm not telling her I already did that. She'll think I'm neurotic. So I say: “Jesus H Christ, I’ll just call HR.”

  Ashley lets out a sigh. “Maybe you should. I never applied to be your personal secretary.”

  “Fine.”

  “Rosie’s half an hour.”

  “Half an hour, half an hour, half an hour. “ I say, referencing Water World. Ashley doesn’t laugh. “So I’m off today.”

  “Yes you’re off today.”

  “Cool... you’re sure?”

  “Oh my God.” Ashley hangs up.

  “Bitch.” I say to the phone.

  ***

  I push a cart slowly down the cereal aisle. I'm wearing ear buds. The Pixies croon idly about incestuous union. I grab grape nuts and chuck them in my cart. For the seven thousandth time I wonder why the hell it's illegal to smoke indoors. I consider the cavernous ceiling. Surely they could install some massive ventilation fan. They probably already have one. Nazis, hippy, fucking Nazis every one. My grip on the cart tightens. If someone tried to talk to me right this second I'd probably hiss.

  The aisle ends. I turn right. Far off down the store, looking over the meat, is another shopper. I always like grocery shopping at 3AM. The people I see are just like me. Oh some trivial things are different: gender, race, etc.. For instance, the Meat Shopper is male, tall, with dirty blonde hair and he obviously cooks for himself if he's buying raw meat, which I surely don't. But the things that matter are the same. My fellow customer is wearing the jeans-hoodie-t-shirt uniform common to all night people of a certain age. His skin is pale, even a little sick looking. His demeanor is casual and unhurried. Most importantly this other human, this night meat shopper, keeps his gaze on the products, or the floor, or anywhere but me. None of that crazy, manic, friendliness of day shoppers with their eager willingness to converse with strangers. Night people avoid one another, as they should. I take one last quick glance at the unshaven shopper. Just long enough to appreciate the perfect V shape of his torso and his square narrow hips. Flash: what might it look like to wrap my legs around them? Now I turn down the soup aisle. Not that I plan to buy soup; I do not. Actually, the items I am here for are over near the other shopper. Whoops, there's that flash again. I'm taking the long way. I'm allowing him time to clear out of the area, as I should.

  Nestled at the end of soup row is canned meat nook. I stop to consider. My thoughts sound something like: Ah, I'd forgotten about spam, and corned beef! Foggy memories of salty greasiness swim to the surface of my head. I pick up a can and stare at it, trying to remember. Do you cook this stuff? Mix it up with mayonnaise?

  I look up and a little black bird sweeps across the aisle. Fuck, I hate that. I hold my breath for a second. Birds get into stores on accident sometimes. It could well be a real bird, I tell myself. I'm not sure how long I stand here like this. When my chest starts to hurt I let out a long, slow exhale and throw the corned beef into the cart. I'm about to start walking again when I see a big shadow out of the corner of my eye. No, it's not a shadow. It's a person. I turn slowly, casually, just in case there's no one there. I don't want to be caught on a surveillance camera twitching like a freak. Here's Meat Shopper, standing right next to me, solid as a rock. And what's this? He's making eye contact. I am startled and embarrassed. His lips are moving; no way. I squint at the man and point to my ear buds which I honestly feel he should have seen easily since my hair is tied up in a top knot. He must be new or something. I turn my back on him pushing my cart further towards the end of the aisle. I haven't gone two steps when there's a tap on my shoulder.

  Fast as lightning I turn around. "What?" I say way too loud. The track on my phone has changed to Nina Simone which was recorded somewhat softer. I can just hear the tall guy.

  He sounds like: "Mwumph do you oo mich ah?" He's pointing at my cart.

  With a sigh I remove an ear bud. "What." It's not really a question the way I say it.

  "The canned meat." He says.

  I can't tell if he's oblivious or just fucking with me. This is not how you meet people, fuck wad. "What about it?" I ask in a tone designed to illicit a never-mind-sorry kind of response.

  It doesn't. "What do you do with it?"

  I stare at the guy for a moment. His face isn't too bad, angular. His eyes are a little too wide maybe, brown though, nice. "Anything you want but they like you to pay for it first."

  Meat Shopper laughs.

  I sigh. I hadn't meant to entertain the shmuck and thereby prolong what is bound to be an awkward, and possibly painful, ending for one or both of us. I turn to go but he reaches over and touches my shoulder. Physical contact! It's like he thinks its noon or something. Maybe he's high. He opens his mouth to say something but I hold up a hand. "Fuck man, I thought you'd be cool about this!" I yell.

  Meat Shopper's eyes go from smiling to confused, and I shake off his hand before walking away. By the time I turn the corner I've got my ear bud back in and Nina is singing about other people going to hell. I turn the volume up.

  The rest of the shopping trip is ruined. My equilibrium is gone. I stare at the food products and can't remember what I needed. Something from the frozen aisle wasn't it? Flash of Meat Shoppers pink lips set in his scratchy unshaven face. What is that feeling? Is that guilt I sense? Oh no you don't, self. He was a crazy psycho meat buyer. Probably not even a night person, you dodged a bullet and you certainly just saved his sorry ass. Disgusted
, I head to the check out. Better not to get perishables anyway, since doing so would mean I'd need to go straight home and put them away. I prefer not to get home until sometime after sun up. I load my items onto the conveyor: a can of sweet potatoes, microwave mac-n-cheese, grape nuts and corned beef. That's right, I'm shopping to fool the feds. Just to round it out I throw a lighter and a pack of mints on the belt. The cashier says something he is paid to say. I can't hear him over the old Metallica song that's blaring in my ears so I say "Great, Thanks." I deem this is probably appropriate, seeing as he doesn't stop and stare at me.

  Outside I stoop down and load my groceries into my messenger bag before lighting a cigarette. There's still three or four hours before sunrise so I start a slow walk towards the nearest residential street. After about a block I stop. I look around to make sure there's no Meat Shopper. Now I remove my ear buds. It's better to be able to hear at night, alone, in the city.

  Eventually my feet take me downtown to Grant Park and the memorial of Lincoln, or somebody larger than life, cast in brass and sitting in that proud, dignified position reserved for statues. Have you ever sat like that? I ask myself. Back straight, feet hip width part, hands on knees. The brass figure is situated on a stone courtyard thing which is shaped like a half circle with benches and a rail lining the circumference. I cross behind the statue and sit on the railing, with my back to Lincoln, looking out over the rolling grass of the park. The lights of the monument shine from below me over the lawn. They cast little rays of the brightest green. It has always seemed to me, when I sit just here, that the lawn is a still green ocean and I am looking out from the deck of a petrified ship. It feels easy and peaceful, and also like something great is about to happen. But then I am a person who is plagued with fruitless expectation. It seems life is forever about to begin, that something special and magical, or scary and death defying is trying to unfold; must be the brain chemicals.