If I wasn't angry before, I am now. And the cocky arrogance of my visitor last night is just getting on my nerves.
I want to let my tongue loose on him and see if he can catch up- meet me savagery for savagery; and maybe when I'm done displaying my purported talkative behavior, then he will find somebody else to stalk. He did hint at liking docile women.
No, silly, my subconscious snaps, shaking her head in pity. He said he likes YOU docile; drunk; agreeing.
So? I echo in my head. What does that mean?
I imagine my subconscious giving me an annoyed look as we engage in this discussion together. Of course she expects better, but my mind has been a madhouse lately and no one can blame me. Something is wrong and I don't know what it is. I don't know what could be worse than that.
She finally comes to my rescue. I don't have to bother to think what my stalker meant by his words as my subconscious supplies: I meant, that it doesn't matter what you do; how you behave. He's going to come after you anyway. He doesn't want drunk, sweet girls. Just you. And it's a plus when you're drunk and sweet.
I'm almost laughing to myself. No freaking way.
Sounds obsessive, doesn't it? Her annoying voice is in my head again and the seed it has planted is hard to uproot.
And what if? I reason. Is this the best way to ask a girl out? By terrorizing her? Because heaven knows I was scared to my toes the days my house was broken into.
And this doesn't make any sense. At all. And I know because this whole thing started when José arrived from his three-month long trip and met Lisa and I at Carlo's Pot. He left and hasn't been back. He told me he has angry people after him and that made a lot of sense. All of this stalk-ery only started at around that time which means it has something to do with him. It's not me that's bringing all this unwanted attention. It's José.
If José can't tell me what the heck is going on, I should make the stalker do it. He can give me answers. How scary can a text-response to my question about wanting to find out the truth be? It's not like the stalker's here right now… Even though I would definitely think twice about sleeping with both eyes closed tonight.
Now that's the problem. I can't even sleep well and that is why I need to find out what is going on. I need to know. Since José is not willing to tell me, I need to find my information elsewhere.
I pick up my phone and type a text.
Me: So you're the one who sent me that other text about...Bruni Santos?
He takes just a few seconds to respond.
Strange line: So... you didn't store my number? Disrespectful. You would have known it was me if you had. I have only ever contacted you with one line.
I'm scoffing as I read his text.
Me: What should I have stored your number as? Stalker? Creep? Dangerous Weirdo? Unknown Annoyance? Mysterious Jerk?
The intention is to insult, disrespect, like he had rightly said. Now that I know he hates Disrespectful, that is all I want to be. Because this man cannot like me. He must not.
But his reply text has me stopping short and staring.
Strange Line: Something. Anything.
A thought runs through my mind. He just wants me to acknowledge that he's important. Like I would give him the satisfaction of being somebody to me.
Me: That is not the question I asked. Who are you? What do you want with me? What did you do to Bruni Santos?
A response is flashing on my screen soon enough. Three words.
Strange line: Come to me.
I smoothen the creases on the sheet of paper I had brought out of the pack, my mind blank like it is. Now this is not the best way to make a good impression on your new boss, but I'm not sure I'm even in a state to be at work today. Heck, I skipped breakfast so I didn't run later than I already was. As soon as I dropped the call with Amelia, I rushed to take a bath and left my house in Lisa's care. My major prompt dashing out of my house like that? The fact that I got my job back by whatever stroke of luck...or interference. And now I'm here. But I think taking the day off would have been better for me. Because just how do I work after...this?
Another text drops from the stalker.
Strange Line: Don't you want to know who I am? Come. To. Me.
The tone sounds mocking, but I try to ignore it.
This does not sound like the sanest thing to do, but I send him a response and it's:
Me: Where?
I have to know who this person is, I tell myself. I'm done with being kept in the dark. It is not the thrill, I tell myself. I just want answers.
And when he gives me a venue, cold sweat drapes around my forehead yet my resolve is not weakened.
I must be running mad.
Strange Line: King's Park. 9 pm. Come alone.