Chapter 1
“Hope is the worst of all evils, for it prolongs the torment of man.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche
Ionly ever see him in my periphery, in shadows and in dreams. There one second and gone the next. He’s become my secret obsession, a man watching me from the shadows and always disappearing just before I can reach him.
I know I should be afraid of him, but for now, my morbid curiosity outweighs my fear.
There’s a reason he’s watching me.
I just can’t figure out what it is.
I told my husband once–on one of his good days–that I noticed a man following me.
That he was standing right outside the house, watching me from the other side of the street.
But Joel checked the doorbell camera playback, but the only movement was the blur of cars driving past and the wind shifting the trees.
He had told me I was “going crazy” and "hallucinating shit,” and that was the end of that.
He wouldn’t even allow me to see a doctor, claiming it was a waste of my time and his money after my last attempt at medication—a year ago, before I started seeing this mystery man—didn’t help anything.
The doctor had said my depression may be “situational,” which was probably her polite way of telling me to get away from my husband.
Joel, however, doesn’t bother dressing up his judgments in tact or civility; he simply tells me I’m crazy.
That’s fine. Let him think so. It’s certainly not the worst thing he’s called me.
I haven’t spoken to him anymore about the man watching me, but he feels too real to be a hallucination.
Whatever he is, he’s an enigma. An obsession.
Despite my precarious mental state, I know I’m not imagining him. I can’t be.
Even now, I search for him in the corner of my vision, hoping his presence will give me a flicker of excitement in the banality of my day, if only for a moment.
He’s been appearing more frequently lately, and I wonder if it means something.
The wheels of my cart shriek out a grating rhythm as they spin against the dirty white tiles of the grocery store floor, and the stark fluorescent lights only cause the tension in my head to wind tighter as they buzz in the background like the incessant drone of a mosquito.
I scrutinize my shopping list for what feels like the hundredth time, knowing that if I forget anything, Joel will make my life a living hell for the rest of the night.
It’s one thing to forget something for our own dinners; it’s another to forget something when we’re feeding half a dozen other people.
The bag of potatoes I toss into the cart lands with a dull thud.
I scratch them off my list before heading to the refrigerated section at the back of the store.
Steaks are next on my list, and the price below the slabs of meat makes me cringe.
Pretty soon, my allotted amount of cash for grocery trips won’t be enough.
At least it’s not my money that I’m spending, but I’m sure Joel will still have something to say about it when I get home despite the fact that he insists on grilling steaks instead of burgers.
God forbid he tarnish his reputation by not impressing his coworkers with his fancy meals, pristine cookie-cutter house, and subservient wife. It’s domestic bliss for him, and suburban hell for me.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I pile up ribeyes in the cart and move on.
Spices are next on the list. I grab a couple bottles and bow my head, pretending to compare the labels as I dart my eyes to my left then my right. Aside from me, the aisle is empty. Perfect.
I drop one of the bottles into my purse that’s hanging from the crook of my elbow as I reach up to put the other back on the shelf. It’s a smooth movement—one that I’ve practiced too many times—and I easily alternate between putting spice bottles in the cart and in my purse.
My heart races at the small act of rebellion.
I always choose something different to steal, but the outcome is the same: more money for me to hide away, and the tiny, fleeting spark of feeling alive, if only for a moment.
It’s the thrill of doing something wrong and getting away with it, even though I know that getting caught would mean more severe consequences for me than for most other people.
But it’s these small rebellions that give me any sort of hope, as momentary as it may be. My secret stash of money grows each time I pocket the cash I was supposed to spend on food, and maybe one day, I’ll have enough to leave.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
But as the days pass, the thread of hope I’m clinging to becomes more frayed, ready to snap. Increasingly more often, I wonder if it’s even worth the effort. Because even if I do manage to leave, he’ll find me. Just like he did last time.
I’d rather die than go through that again. Joel’s anger is more unforgiving than a few months locked in a jail cell would ever be.
The cashier gives me an odd look as I place the groceries on the conveyor belt, and for a moment, I worry she caught me pocketing the spices until I realize she’s glancing at my long sleeve shirt.
I give her a tight-lipped smile but say nothing, because what excuse could I give to justify wearing long sleeves in the sweltering summer heat?
Most of my bruises have healed by now, but I can’t take any chances.
Too many people know Joel and therefore recognize me, and an investigation, no matter how well-intentioned, would only result in a slap on the wrist for him.
And I’d still be here, stuck in a cycle of hopelessness and despair, wishing I could leave him but knowing it’s near impossible.
Sometimes the desperation of my utter powerlessness is too much to bear.
The sliding glass doors part before me as I exit the store, and the frigid air conditioning of the grocery store gives way to the thick, suffocating North Carolina heat, the asphalt of the parking lot shimmering under the beating sun.
That’s when I see him.
My breath catches in my throat at the vision of the tall, dark-haired man standing between a pristine SUV and a rusty old Toyota with a missing bumper.
He’s obscured slightly by the heat mirage, the sun warping the air around him, but he’s recognizable all the same.
Even without ever having fully seen his face, I’d recognize him anywhere.
We’ve never spoken, yet I feel like I’ve known him a lifetime. The man from my dreams. The man who’s been following me.
He’s here, my mind screams. He’s here for me. My body reacts in an instant, adrenaline rushing through me as I push the heavy cart as fast as I can toward the line of cars. Maybe this time I can catch him, speak to him, figure out what he wants from me.
I half-jog toward him, my sandals slapping the asphalt. I only glance away for half a second when my shoe catches on the cart’s wheel, but when I look back up, he’s gone.
I whip my head around, frantic to find him, but the rows of cars stretch over every available surface.
My heart sinks like an anchor in my chest, dragging me down until it feels like it would be easier to collapse onto the asphalt and let it swallow me whole rather than to continue on with my mundane routine.
Every day has been the same for the last couple years. The monotony of cooking and cleaning during the day punctuated by the anxiety of Joel’s return home from work, after which I tiptoe around his emotions by constantly trying to say and do the right things.
It’s been a steady downward spiral of anxiety, fear, and hopelessness—until he appeared.
I don’t know where he came from or why he decided to start visiting me, but his presence is the only thing that gives me hope anymore.
I dream of him constantly, wishing I could find a way to convince him to take me away from this life, even if I have no reason to believe he’s here to help me.
But there has to be an explanation to why he keeps appearing to me. It’s intentional; it has to be. There’s no reason he’d randomly pick me, a 30-year-old housewife who’s about as average as they come, unless it was personal.
I’ve considered the idea that Joel hired a hitman to get rid of me, but I quickly dismissed the thought. If he wanted me dead, he’d probably take pleasure in killing me himself.
By the time I’ve finished loading the groceries into the trunk, my hair is plastered to my neck and my clothes cling to my skin with sweat.
The car hums to life when I turn the key, and I blast the A/C on high as I drive home in silence, goosebumps erupting on my skin from the cold burst of air.
I’m cruising down the highway when the voice in my head coaxes, You could just jerk the wheel.
One quick, little movement, and all of this would be over.
It’s true, I think. I could. Why shouldn’t I?
Shit, I need to stop. I shake the thought out of my head, even though I know it’ll creep back in soon in one form or another, whether it’s encouraging me to slam my car into a tree or steal Joel’s pistol from his nightstand. You can make it quick, the voice always tells me.
Honestly, I wish I had a good argument against it, but I don’t. It’s hard to imagine myself lasting much longer like this if things don’t change soon.
Focus on something else.
The man in my dreams. The man I swear I just saw. I can focus on him—who or what he might be. That’s safe. Safer, anyway.
Is he a ghost? My guardian angel? The grim reaper?
A normal man stalking me who simply knows how to slip away at just the right moment?
Or maybe Joel’s right, and the mystery man is a figment of my imagination concocted by my slowly crumbling mind to give me some pathetic hope that I might be rescued from this depressing hell.
It’s impossible to know, but my obsession only grows with each appearance.
It’s just past three when I get home, and sweat drips from my forehead, making my loose strands of hair cling to my damp skin as I carry in the last of the groceries.
There’s no time to rest, though. Joel will be home in less than three hours, followed closely by his work buddies, and I’ll need to shower and start preparing the sides for dinner before then.
I’m finishing up the potato salad and shucking the ears of corn when Joel’s car door slams outside, the sound breaking the stillness of the house like a gunshot.
My gut twists in the same way it does every evening at the sound of his arrival, but I school my expression to one of complacent nonchalance and say a silent prayer that he’s in a good mood.
The front door opens, Joel steps inside, and I hold my breath.