Do normal people have to run away from gun carrying (thank God I watch too many spy/action movies) men who attempt to follow you home from the shops where you’re attempting to buy locks that are hopefully better at keeping the weird things out than your current one? I should think not. I’m pretty sure that I’ve not felt more paranoid since uni, when paranoia was simply everyday. I mean, I was a pretty angsty teenager, and I constantly felt like the whole world was out to get me. This time, I’m pretty sure that it is.
I have never been more thankful for my youth experience with cross country, and my little-used ability to disappear. I was able to lose the creeps, and put enough streets between them and myself that I felt safe sneaking home. Is this what it’s like to live in a Bourne movie? Because honestly, I’d rather not. I’m a writer, not a runner.
All of this was preceded by what happened last night.
Last night, as I was just about to attempt to sleep, I found another note on my table. It was in the exact same place as the previous note, on the same kind of paper, and written with what looked like the same pen. It simply said Be careful. I, having made a habit all my life of being careful, promptly ignored it and went to sleep. Well, I say I went to sleep. Instead I lay in my bed for what felt like hours, listening to all the sounds in the flat.
This morning I woke up early, with all intents of both buying new locks, groceries, and hopefully catching my brother leaving the flat. He apparently wasn’t back at all last night, which is worrying even me. His car is still on the kerb, along with mine, and his bookbag is still in the customary space next to the couch. I’m both hoping that the nasty men with guns are his problem, and not. I mean, why else would they be coming after me? I don’t even write political articles! I mean, unless the history of a particular piece of music is political, these days.
The rest of this evening was spent hearing every sound, cataloguing it, and attempting to dismiss it. Every creak in the wood, every step of the neighbours next door, every car that drives by causes me to stiffen up and think that it’s the gun carrying nutsos again.
If they found me shopping, then they can find my flat. I’ve put my book boxes in front of the door.