I face most encounters alone. I’ve gotten used to being by myself in my experiences – the good, the bad, the in-between – meeting different people, and visiting all the unremarkable places I can step into and step out of without ever making any remarkable impact. There are acquaintances I’ve made, but none ever close enough to be considered a friend.
I don’t know what it feels like to share personal stories to anyone, and in that regard, no one tells me theirs. I suppose I can’t get anywhere if I remain as withdrawn as I am. I haven’t been granted the intimacy of a nickname either. I’m always just Isidora. The neutrally boring passerby in everybody else’s lives: the kind accidentally ignored or just never paid attention to.
No one knows I sit at my desk until midnight, poking a needle at a ball of wool until it takes the shape of animal creatures. I’ve pricked dots of blooming red on my fingers because of my dwindling focus tonight. My eyes keep diverting from my project to stare at the four black ants scattered around an energy drink that should’ve been trashed several days ago.
I just sigh as I feel another self-induced sting on the thin flesh of my pointer finger. I set my felting needle down, having enough of my own slip-ups. I suck my finger, my tongue smoothing over the hardly-there wounds. It’s getting late and watching ants trail around feels stupid. I prop up my handmade owl alongside its companions on a glass case in my desk. It’s missing any facial features, but its small, dense body is there. I’ll poke two circles of black wool as eyes the size of sesame seeds tomorrow night to give it some character. For now, I wait for sleep to take me.
The sheets, the pillows, the mattress underneath me are hardly felt. All I know is that my body sinks into it so easily like there’s a mold I just have to fit into. I don’t care for comfort when I seek out rest. I find that as long as it’s late enough into the night, I won’t be able to resist passing out within minutes of shutting my eyes.
So I remember the pale cream of my ceiling, which had turned into beige by the night’s shadows, and then the pit of static void behind my eyelids afterwards.
It feels like I’m in a painting the next moment I have a grasp of my functions. My linear vision allows me the sight of a flat-plained forest, of trees that look like they’ve been drawn by children, and of a fog in the air like a smudge of desaturated colors. I turn my head here and there; my confusion only worsens fraction by fraction as it begins to feel like I’m in a sphere of sorts. Or a dome.
I walk forward, reaching out for a tree trunk. I press my palm against it, but I don’t feel even one texture from it. It’s neither rough nor smooth to touch.
I must be in a dream.
Relief fills me when this thought comes to mind. It will end. The urge to constantly look over my shoulder will end with it. In the meantime, I can only wish for morning to come sooner so my alarm can ring, effectively waking me for work. Then ensues a boring routine of answering to my boss’ whims and a monotonous, almost pointless way of life when I could be strolling with friends I don’t have or having dinner with a special someone I’m still waiting for.
My feet propel me to wander around this mystery of a place. I can lose myself here however I like, can’t I? Even if there is that sinking throb of uneasiness I can only try to forget about while I slip through strange trees I’ll only brush past once. A buzz occupies my ears from the raw silence that pervades this place. I’m scared to even talk in case I interrupt what might keep this dream flowing.
I’ve been walking in one direction for about ten minutes now. My assumptions about being in a sphere are corrected when the forest finally shows signs of clearing. The fog is shifting too.
Hills. The forest extends to a cliff, surrounded by hills.
I stand at the edge of the cliff, overlooking numerous bumps of land of varying heights emerging from a ground I can’t place. I’m too scared to look down and over the cliff to see how elevated I really am from solid ground. So I look up instead and notice the absence of clouds in the pale blue sky; it brings a reminder of how alone I must be in this place. I’m the only one standing underneath this clear sky and welcoming a view of this surreal glade. I stop for now, just observing the change of scenery. I turn around me again to look back at the grey forest. Unchanged. And back at the hills. Changed.
I step back with a gasp when something white is now burrowed in the center of the hill directly across from me. It’s a child… no, a… a…
My thoughts have yet to form recognition when words are spoken to me against my will.
“A friend, are you?”
I can only imagine how my face twists in horrification of the voice that comes to me. I don’t mean to be so terrified. I force indifference, sucking my lips in and grounding myself. If this thing takes offense, there’s no stopping it from crawling out of that burrow and chasing me down that endless forest.
“I’m pass- passing by, actually…” I say, the words coming out more as a murmur than anything else. The bravest I’ve felt my whole life.
The white thing draws its knees to its chest. So it’s got the limbs of a human, I see. That would be somewhat comforting, if it didn’t have a disfigured head with an empty face. No eyebrows, no eyes, no nose, and no mouth. Like… like the owl I was crafting right before I fell asleep.
I need to wake up. Now.
“No one ever passes by me anymore… it is nice to see you.”
“Oh! Uhh… right.”
“Say, have you got friends?”
“… N-Not a lot. I like… keeping to myself.”
“We could be friends then? We can say we’re each other’s friends.”
I swallow a dry patch of spit that doesn’t quite go down past the stone in my throat. It’s getting hard to breathe now. I’m dizzy with this conversation. I don’t know how I’m following this voice. It’s of monotone nature and light-pitched cadence, resounding from the direction of the white thing. It speaks but it’s got no mouth. I don’t want to notice all the other odd details about it in case I’m tempted to hurl from combined stress and fear.
“Sure? Friends,” I answer, greatly disturbed.
The white thing shakes, a shudder passing through its body. It must be how it expresses an excitement of sorts.
I wake up from that dream, shaking as well.
To the best of my ability, I gather myself in an act of faux composure so I can go about my day without flinching at the reminder of that strange, strange phantasm I concocted in my own imagination. Am I really so desperate for companionship I’d go so far as to think up things wholly detrimental to my well-being in a mindless pursuit?
I’m conflicted in admitting there’s no dramatic shift in the days that come. Whatever already occurred in a day that’s already finished is a haze, and of no concern to me unless there exists a particular instance worth sticking around to remember. It must be why the dream has left behind an excess of dread that lingers all around me. It interrupted my ordinary routine of all things mundane. I work during the day as usual, and retire into the night pursuing my needle-felting craft all alone. The way it’s always been.
I return my needle and wool back to its drawer. My only hobby, meant to be a healing activity, has been tainted by a surge of lethargy that prohibits me from crafting anything complete. There’s a weighted pressure on my shoulders that go down all the way to my wrists. I roll my shoulders back, tilt my head in circles, and shake my hands but I can’t be free of it. I no longer have the drive to do anything beyond stare at the materials in a daze. I think I know why.
From time to time, I swear I am being watched. I can’t continue to deny it anymore. It’s happening right now. The heavy tension in the air and a faint murmur from the corners – or is it the walls? – of my room.
I charge at my windows when I notice a silver of light peeking through. Impelled by my frustration, I shut the curtains tighter together, nearly tugging it out of its frame. I suspect it is out there. That white thing. It haunts me.
Will it leave me alone if I just confront it? It doesn’t even matter if it actually exists anymore. I’ve had enough of second guessing things over and over again. My fist closes around the curtain sheets, pulling the sheets apart like it pains me to, while my eyes seek out what’s been bothering me for days without stopping. I hear the beat of my heart clearer than I can see my neighbor’s house at this time of the night. I see a backyard with swaying trees. There’s no white thing to be aggravated over.
I become so angry with myself that my vision zeroes in on my own reflection against my window pane, on the curved lines between my forehead and eyebrows. A little ways under, there’s a glossy sheen in my tired eyes. Further south, my trembling lip. There’s also the shadow next to me.
The… the… the shadow next to me!
I cry out in horror, unable to do much besides jump in my own skin.
The shadow has no definitive features, and yet it has a voice. A monotone, light-pitched noise that resounds into words:
“A friend, you are.”
I look to my right. It is next to me now. But it only exists in reflection. It watches me too, I know it. My friend.
The dark mass develops into many forms depending on the day. And it follows me. Sometimes it decides to look just like me. My own clone. So that when I catch my reflection there lives two Isidoras. Other times it is merely a gloomy presence. It hasn’t made a sound since I discovered it, like its persisting quality should be enough for words.
In any case, should I be grateful I’m no longer all by myself?
Written By: Sarina Bautista
Edited By: Amberlyn
