Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Potential reasons:
Sleepwalking/Sleepy Ada
Carbon monoxide poisoning
Glitch in the matrix/delivery delay of the text
Actual stalker
Tom
Complete mental break
God himself is both real AND torturing me
After spending all day yesterday trapped in bed, I need to make sense of what is happening to me.
Since my head was somewhat clear when I woke up to pee this morning, I forced myself out of bed and made a list of possible causes of my issues, but none of them seem to explain everything.
Nothing explains everything, so it has to be some weird combination of things, though which combination is anyone’s guess.
Now, I’m sitting at the table staring at the list I’ve written and willing it to present me with which is at fault.
The real problem is, the solution to these causes is different.
If I can’t figure out what is happening to me, how am I meant to fix it?
Therapy is only going to solve things if the issue is some combination of my mental health deteriorating and weird tech issues that would delay my text message delivery.
Granted, the text message delay thing isn’t that weird… half the time my mom calls it’s because I haven’t responded to a text that I haven’t received yet.
And of course my anxious brain wants to jump right to “stalker” but…
things just don’t add up quite right. Mostly because the “stalker” in question knows a lot, like a lot a lot, about me.
Like my secret love for the goth aesthetic and dark romance.
They aren’t things that I really talk to people about, except maybe Fae, but that’s only because we like the same books a lot of the time, and she knows which gorgeous goth girls I follow on social media.
I add: “Fae being my secret Santa” to the list. And then immediately cross it out because she certainly doesn’t have access to my online accounts. She wouldn’t be ordering things from my accounts.
Which, of course, leads me back to a mental health issue. A few days ago I was worried about losing time, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like I’m not.
Not remembering what is happening while you are literally sleeping isn’t losing time. That’s pretty frickin’ normal, last I checked.
Pushing return several times, I start a new list. An objective account of what is happening.
Wrapping paper
Book
Text messages from my old number nagging me about lights
Wake-up routine alterations
Boxes on my porch (attributed to the texter)
Next, I group them into two groups. Those possibly done by someone else, and those that could ONLY be done by me.
After my identity was stolen last year, I’ve implemented a lot of fail safes to my online accounts…
so I move those items into “done by me” with the mental caveat that they could, possibly, in a very strange stealth hacker situation be done by someone else.
Done by me:
Wrapping paper
Book
Wake-up routine alterations
Done by someone else:
Text messages from my old number nagging me about lights
Boxes on my porch (attributed to the texter)
Looking at it that way, it does seem like the two things might be entirely unrelated. Like my college statistics professor used to say, “don’t mistake correlation for causation.”
Further, when I look at the list of “Done by me” stuff, it’s far less scary.
In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that weird to order yourself a little treat or two and forget about it, or download a new wake-up routine.
Hell, my little corporate spy is always offering me new routines, it’s possible I just said “yes” to one she suggested when I wasn’t actually listening.
So, mentally, I file that into the bucket of “no, for real girl, get a therapist” and stare down the other list.
The “Done by someone else” stuff is actually relatively harmless, if annoying. When I think about it, they do solidly fall into the “annoyingly overly neighborly” category, of which I know one man that absolutely meets that criteria.
Fucking Tom.
How do I deal with this? Do I call the cops?
It sounds so pathetic in my mind. “Yes, hello? My neighbor is texting me to remind me to put up my lights and getting my decorations out of my garage. Yes, I know that just sounds nice, but it doesn’t feel nice.”
They’ll just tell me to call back if anything actually bad happens, I’m sure. Especially since they have talked to me way too much already.
With a pout, I realize that I am going to have to talk to him. He can’t be doing things for me like this… especially not when I am sleeping. Definitely not when I am sleeping. My stomach plummets. The fact that he was here while I was sleeping really doesn’t sit well with me.
Fuck, not only am I going to have to talk to him, but now I am going to have to talk to him about something that makes me really uncomfortable.
Do I need to, though? Really? After all, he’s just trying to help…
and I don’t like the nighttime thing… but what if it was the only time he could do it?
I didn’t want him to, or ask him to, but he really is just trying to be nice… right?
As per usual, I think I might be overreacting about this, surely all of this is just a coincidence.
After dealing with my list, I make some coffee and sit down on the couch to get some work done.
Henry raises his head and cracks an eye enough to confirm I’ve sat down.
Seeing me must have given him enough motivation to shift his big body, because with a stretch, he meanders over to lie on my feet on the couch.
Mixed in with all of my work emails is one from my sister, Teagan, and I groan. I would bet all of my recent good luck that my mom has galvanized her against me. Or rather, for the “Ada comes home for Christmas” cause.
Don’t get in the way of a religious woman with a cause to fight for. They’ll fight dirty with a smile on their face.
“Hey Sis!” it starts, and then there is an adorable picture of my new nephew, looking like a grumpy old man as he sleeps curled up in our family bassinet.
Yes, a family bassinet. It's just as saccharine as it sounds. Every Kimball since the pioneer days has slept in this cradle, with fathers through the generations repairing it. I don’t know what I would do if I ever have kids—I sincerely doubt they’d ship it from Utah.
Now there’s a depressing thought.
“As you can see, Parker is so upset you won’t be joining us for Christmas. If there’s anything either David or I can do to make it so you can come, please tell me. We’d love to see you, and Parker needs some auntie snugs!” Her email ends with a Christmas-themed sign-off, holiday cheer galore.
A rock settles in my stomach. Of course I want to snuggle this adorable little bean. I mean, just look at that nose. It’s so damn kissable.
It’s classic Kimball guilt. I wish knowing about it made it stop being as effective. Maybe someone who actually went to therapy, instead of just thinking about it a lot, would be immune. Me though? No way.
It settles heavy on my soul, because if only I were stronger, if only I’d actually gone to therapy by now, I could go home for the holidays and snuggle that adorable baby. Instead, I’ll be stuck here, trapped in my house, crying for hours I’m sure.
What was Sleepy Ada thinking? Changing my greetings to be holiday themed? The last thing I need is a reminder of everything that is happening without me. Further, fucking Tom putting my boxes out and guilting me into decorating didn’t help.
I needed to deal with him. I was strong enough to deal with him. All it would take was a quick text, a message saying he needed to leave it alone and it would be dealt with. That I could do.
First, though, I’ll put away the fucking boxes. It’s only a matter of time before a package arrives and I have to stare them down, so I might as well deal with them while I was already in a Scrooge-y mood.
Bah, Humbug!
Who needs Christmas? Not me! I’m not even religious anymore, so now it’s just about family, and if I’m not going to be with family, what's the point in being festive? It’ll only rub my face in what I can’t have, what I’m not doing.
Slapping my thighs, I stand up. A move I got from my dad, who slaps his legs and says “Well!” before doing anything, it feels like.
“Wish me luck, Henry. I’m going outside.”
Fuzzy ears perk up at the word, and he rouses himself, slow and steady. He might not be the most effective guard dog, but he’s a great companion, and a trip outside will always get him up. Because I live in the forest and he’s so lazy, I never worry about leashing him.
Going on a walk through my woods is one of the few things I can do to go outside these days, so after I finish up with the decorations, I think I should maybe take one.
I try to get out at least once a day, though I don’t always make it.
It doesn’t have to be long, and Henry would really like it.
I smile once I decide. Maybe I need to ignore Christmas, but I can still enjoy the quiet stillness of winter.
No to Christmas, yes to winter.
Winter is for quiet and being alone. I can appreciate it, celebrate it even, without mourning what I am missing. I nod my head and step into my big snow boots. One puffer jacket and beanie later, I’m ready for some manual labor… even if I’m never really ready for manual labor.
Henry’s out the door first, for once in his life motivated. I pause as soon as I’m on the porch.
My very empty porch.
The boxes are gone, as if I imagined them being out at all, and now they’re replaced with mistletoe hanging on a cord like a tennis ball in a garage.
It bonks me in the head, a physical manifestation of how fucking dumbfounded I am.
Because my brain? Empty. No lights, no one is home, executive error.
I search the ground outside, and this time, there are footprints tracking back and forth from my garage to my porch. As my eyes roam, they snag on red and green reflections on the snow.