Anxious Touch

Tevin Slippy

He appeared sometime during my early teens, the strange man. He never gave his name; he just chose me, standing behind me always. I wish he would terrorize someone else.

I often wonder where he came from, whether he fell from the sky or rose from the ground. Or perhaps he is the result of someone’s evil prayer to put a curse on me. He is tall and slender, often crouching under doorways. His flesh is the color of static, with a wide grin and teeth so white. His voice is soft and clear, and his grip is as strong as a vice. Eyeless and weightless, he controls every moment of my day as he slithers behind me.

He is with me when I am having a conversation or at the counter to receive my medication. His hands clench my lips when he doesn’t want me to speak. Other times he places his hand on my shoulder to send a paralyzing current of fear, preventing me to act. The electric current of energy I feel when he touches me is immeasurable, despite my lack of movement. My body feels like I’m on fire while I just stand there, sweating profusely, waiting for him to let go.

He is invisible to everyone else, although I wish others could see him. Perhaps they would understand why I am always sweating and wouldn’t laugh at my stutter. Maybe my old friends would forgive me for abandoning them. Once, I wanted to contact an old friend, when he grabbed my hand and threw the phone to the ground saying, “They will hate you for avoiding them. Better to be a good friend and be out of their life.” I tell myself I am in control and can get rid of him, but his grip only gets stronger. I’ve often chosen to avoid situations that displease him, which is why I have locked myself away from the rest of the world. If only he would let me speak my mind, others would know what I am feeling. They would understand the pain I feel if they could see the monster behind me. They would understand that I hate him. Invisible scars are hard to feel sorry for.

When we are alone is when he talks the most. He’ll lean against the wall, hands behind his head as he abuses me with his words. “You’re clearly not good enough,” he’ll say, with so much confidence to make me believe it. It could be about anything: washing the dishes, combing my hair, applying for jobs. I usually just shrug, pretending his words don’t affect me. “Obviously you are incapable of success, so why do you even try?” That one hurt. I never respond to him, even when he nags. “Oh, come on, don’t you believe it too?” He leans forward with his obnoxious grin. “It’s not like you’re capable of doing something incredible. At least with me you’ll be safe.” The way he stretched out his arm toward me, inviting me to take his hand, made me feel squeamish. I didn’t want to believe him, but his words were repeated my whole life.

He doesn’t sleep, either. He often gets bored at night and relays to me everything that can go wrong the next day while clinging to the ceiling. “So, I see you got classes at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to sleep through your alarm, or you’ll be late!” Duh, that’s why I set the alarm in the first place, idiot. “OHMYGOSH what if that creepy person you don’t like stares at you the whole lunch hour?” The things he talks about aren’t usually important, but the way he says them with such urgency makes it difficult for my mind to be at ease. Sometimes he touches my heart, making it beat faster and filling my body with adrenaline so I won’t fall asleep. It’s usually when I’m about to fall asleep, he reaches from the ceiling, jolting my body awake. Sometimes it’s so startling that it takes hours for me to settle down and stop panicking.

Every now and then, I get courageous and forget his presence. It’s these moments that I get myself into trouble. I had the pleasure of conversing with my neighbor next door while we were both doing yard work the other day. I mentioned how hot the summer had been, and we began chatting. “So, how have classes been for ya?” I was about to respond when the strange man quickly reminded me who was in charge when he gently rested his hand on my shoulder, with a gentleness that was uncanny. I started choking on my breath, trying to remember how to speak. Thankfully, we were doing yard work, so my sweat looked natural. “You good there, son?” I didn’t know how to respond. The strange man was frowning and looked serious. It was clear that I crossed the line. I tried my best to smile, while the neighbor just chuckled, saying “well, tell your family I said hi,” waving his hand, as he turned back to his work. The strange man scolded me all the way back to my work area. “Why didn’t you keep your head down and not make eye contact? What must he think of you now?” I felt embarrassed and guilty.

Although the experience with the neighbor was hurtful, it was clear that something changed within the strange man. Ever since that exchange, it has been getting easier for me to converse freely without the input of the strange man. I spoke to my old friends the other day, and they didn’t hate me but were happy that I reached out. His grip is getting weaker each day, as I happily defy him. Nowadays, he has shrunken quite a bit. He has shriveled into a much smaller creature, and his voice is much fainter than it used to be. He has lost his power to cling to the ceiling and now just pouts in the corner of my bedroom at night. His touch barely has any spark to it nowadays. Perhaps my dream of getting rid of him is finally coming to pass.