Vivienne Maudlin would write infinite stories in her exercise books until her primary teachers took them

away. She has reined herself in somewhat but still loves to defy the writing rules. She currently resides at sea level in Brighton trying (and failing) to quell her wanderlust.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

MF Thank you For reading this when no one else would

Vivi enne Ma udli n

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

Copyright Vivienne Mauldin The right of Vivienne Maudlin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. ISBN 978 1 84963 364 2 www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2013) Austin & Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Photography, as we know, is not real at all. It is just an illusion of reality with which we create our own private world. Arnold Newman

But sometimes windows break. I think that, more than anything else, is the concern of this story: what happens to the wide-eyed observer when the window between reality and unreality breaks and the glass begins to fly? Stephen King

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I recite: I am a sick man... I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. I recite to nobody in particular and then I laugh. Not anymore. My back is slumped into the wall, my spine curves at an angle to which it is not accustomed yet I can muster neither the energy nor strength to move myself. My mind is racing, exploring avenues in my brain that are suddenly clear. I close my eyes. I allow myself to travel through all my new thoughts, all my new cognitions, revelling in the chance that I may now make my own memories. I find a slither of vivacity and lift my eyelids, allowing my vision to blur in and out of focus. As my perception clears I allow myself to gaze upon the bodies lying before me. I cannot prevent a smile from creeping across my face, a smile that threatens to explode into laughter as I watch her lifeless form curve, her porcelain skin stretching over her broken bones. Simply picturing what I could do to her now she can no longer fight back sends shivers right across my skin and down my spine. I rotate my shoulder blades, smirking at her. My eyes flicker towards my feet, his head is resting there, eyes rolled back inside his head, as if he is staring right into his own mind, watching his thoughts unfold.

His body represents everything I have achieved. I prod his head with my foot. It moves about easily now I have broken the bones and ligaments in his neck. I watch him intently as if somewhere in the viscera of my mind I expect him to move, or have his eyes roll back and focus on me. I hear a sound deep within me as my mechanisms shriek to life, cogs starting to spin and grind against one another, as I feel a twang of guilt. I suppress it quickly, looking away from his body and closing my eyes. The cogs begin to slow, creaking loudly against one another. I quell the empathy that wells inside me, squashing the last of his control over me. He is now of no more significance to me than a pinprick drop in a spilled pool of virginal blood. He holds nothing inside of me, the bond we shared has perished alongside his mind. There is a knock at the door. My stomach lurches. I can sense the urgency in the knuckles that slam into the wood. I snap my eyes open and peer around the corner towards the door. It is resting lightly in the frame, it is hurting since I kicked it in and shattered the lock, what seems like a whole lifetime ago. A groan escapes my lips as I climb to my feet, supporting all my weight on the wall. I hesitate as I move towards the door as the knocking has ceased. I exhale a breath I was not aware I had been holding. Then there is another knock... and then another... faster and faster... the door jolts in its frame. I stumble the last few steps and throw my whole body into the door. I press my forehead into the door and grip the handle tightly in my hand. I feel no desire to open the door but I need

the support for my fragile body as my new thoughts rage violently. A voice comes crashing through the door. It is harsh and scratches across my ears. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I press myself closer to the door, as if I might fall right through onto the man lingering on the other side. Mr Riley! I grin as I realise it is not me he wants, but the man I have killed. I realise suddenly that I have a chance to use my final and most beautiful piece of work. Mr Riley! I know you are in there. Open the door. I smile into the wood as his voice cracks with anger. The screaming has woken my wife. All this noise. The fire. I have had enough! I lean my neck back and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with stale air and projecting myself through at him, my voice thick and steady. I am sorry. Nathan is unable to answer. Profanities spill from the mans mouth and through the door. For Christs sake Mr Riley... Im not going to take this anymore. Theres other people living in this building besides you! I do not think he has listened to me, something that could cause a great misfortune. Did you not hear me? I said he is unable to answer. I feel him slam his fist into the door, my whole body shakes with his force. You are not listening. I Said He is unable to come to the door. He is unable to answer I have had enough! His words pummel the door. I cannot take any more of your shit. I demand to know what the hell is going on! I laugh quietly to myself. I think I can shed light on a few things. I reach into my pocket and pull out an envelope. I pull a section of the mat up away from the floorboards and slide the

envelope underneath. There is a rustling noise as he tears it from my hand. I smirk as I hear him ripping away at the paper. Then... there is silence. I press my ear to the door and struggle to make out his staggered breathing. There is something that sounds much like a gasp. I feel it flood my body and run up my spine. I am glad I am already on the floor for the sensations that run right through me may have caused me to collapse and writhe. Have you read my letter? He takes a moment. Yes... Have you looked at my photograph... I mean really looked? I want you stare at him, I want you to imagine what has happened to him. Trust me, the reality of what he endured will be far worse than your lonely mind can conjure. I assure you. I close my eyes and imagine him gazing upon my finest work, my finest model. He does not reply to my questioning, I feel increasing frustration. Have you? I snap. I have. I smile uncontrollably, unable to stifle my laughter. I envisage his face as he reads the words I typed on my dying typewriter... the words I typed before I typed any of my other letters, before I took any of my other photographs, for I knew he was my aspiration, he was my expectation and his death was my prize for patience. As I press myself closer to the door I can almost hear his mind screaming the words:
I KILLED HIM

I speak to him again through the door, keeping my voice level and calm. I am sorry. Nathan is unable to answer... I killed him.

I wait for him to make the next move... I turn back around, peering into his space that I have intruded on, much in the same way I invaded his mind. I see the bodies lying motionless on the floor amongst water, paint and pools of their own blood and wonder how thoughts of inadequacy were ever given shelter within the sanctity of my mind. Im calling the police! I hear him shout, I hear him thundering up the stairs but I am unafraid... they cannot catch me. There is nothing they can do to hurt me. I recite: I am a sick man... I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. Again, I recite to nobody in particular and I laugh. Not anymore. I smile and crack my knuckles. But... I am... a free man... Flash

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YOU KILLED HER

These are the words printed in block capitals on the piece of paper I find, in an envelope, hidden inside the morning newspaper. Its six minutes past eight and I can still see the solitary boy who delivered the paper rushing along the road. For nine point four seconds I stare after him, and then I close the door. I retreat inside my apartment peering up and down the corridor before locking myself inside. The newspaper flinches in my hand and the middle pages fall hysterically to the ground. I sort through them, screwing piece after piece into a tight ball. There is something else, its not part of the newspaper and there is no doubt about that. Its a letter and a photograph. A photograph of a dead woman. I read the words again...
YOU KILLED HER

But I didnt. Thats what I think. I just didnt. Simple. Theres no reasoning with some people sometimes, you cant be around people like this, often I find its best just to ignore them and separate yourself entirely. I leave the balls of paper, the message and the photograph on the mat. They have no right to come any further into my space. Another forty-five centimetres and they could easily have

made it to the master bedroom. No, its best for them to stay where they are. Thats a conclusion and a conclusion is final and it would at least require an explanation as to why its no longer final. An explanation I would not divulge. Only the front page of that newspaper is allowed to advance inside. I take it into the master bedroom. I find a space on the wall where todays addition can be displayed. Every day I doubt I will find a space for a new one but sure enough, I find new patches of striped wallpaper that Im sure were not there before. Its one of those things that cant be explained using science or math. Its these things that I dont understand. Those things that neither make you happy nor sad, those feelings that are all in between. They dont make sense. Therefore they dont have a purpose. If I have one of these feelings that cant be comprehended then I use a knife to make them go away. This is what I do now. I have a draw in the kitchen just for this knife. It does not belong with my other things; it mustnt intrude on the things I understand. I get blood on my watch. It tells me its six minutes past eight. Its always six minutes past eight, even when I know its not because the sun is high in the sky and the shadows are short and unimportant. It has been ever since I broke it. I put the knife back inside the draw. The third draw from the right, I could find it even if I was blind and I could make those cuts in my flesh parallel with each other and stop the blood from staining my clothes. Its a science and its science that I understand. I wipe the blood onto my shirt sleeve. I should change. I consider. I would need that ghastly green-collared short-sleeved shirt if I am to go to work. I cant go to work, not yet anyway. Im waiting for Milo to call. Milo always calls me on this day. Three days into the week, whatever day that may be. I flick through my rail of clothes barely paying attention till my hands find the coarse fabric of my work shirt. I really

should go to work, its the right time, the suns just right in the sky but I cant, Milo needs me. I change and put the dirty shirt into the kitchen sink. I fill the bowl with water and watch the blues turn almost black as the fabric soaks it up. I cant find the special fabric soap that Milo bought for me so I drop a bar of soap into the water and let it sink to the bottom. This is when the telephone rings. No, wait, it didnt. Did it? I pick it up and listen to the dull monosyllabic tone that in time becomes just white noise as I listen to the sound of my space. I can hear everything, things that other people can only imagine. Those people are not normal. I am normal. Very normal. I can hear the floorboards struggling to hold my weight, I can hear the lights buzzing as they provide a constant light, I can hear the door breathing inside its frame and I can hear my hair growing. This was when the telephone rings. This time I am right. It is real. It is loud, really loud as I hold it next to my ear wishing for the white noise to come back. I wait for a few moments, then... Hello? Milo speaks before I do. I say nothing. Hello? He says it again. Twice. Never more than twice. Hello. I copy him, it is safest. Nate? I am silent. How are things? Fine. I watch the sun, I am late. I listen to my brothers voice but I dont really remember what he says after that. Something about how much sleep Ive been getting, something about his work, something about my work, something about how horrible the weather is, something about a dead woman in the news, something about his new television. Wait. A dead woman? Milo? Yes?

How did she die? Who? The woman. Strangled. Oh. And that is that. Something about a woman hes met, something about the election year, something about Vietnam, something about maybe going away for a vacation or some sort of trip, something about something about nothing. After that I ask him to hang up. He says he will. Nate? He says. Yes? I say. I dont blame y- I hang up before he finishes speaking but I know what he was going to say, it will be what he always says. No one ever says goodbye. Milo has made me feel strange, categorically strange, so that I didnt know what I should say or do or act, he makes it so Im not so normal anymore, so I go to the third draw from the right, I have to. Just like always. Flash I can see him. He is there. Right there. He is cutting into himself again. It is a coping mechanism. I do not blame him, I would need a release, after all there is nothing like exorcising yourself of your demons and letting all that flows in the labyrinth of your mind escape. His choice to concede to this way of life is shocking, even more shocking, perhaps, yet not so much, is my patience before I kill him. It pains me deeply. The desire to strike his head from his shoulders, to pull his mind right out of his skull pulses through me, amalgamating with my blood. It powers my organs. It drives my existence. I am at its mercy. It amuses me that he is completely unaware of my presence, unaware that is until he opened my letter and photograph. Yet he is still unaware it was me.

God damn he is stupid, that donkey scarcely even knows what day it is. I can see him. He is just sitting now. He is simply sitting, not even watching the world go by. He always does this, spends time staring into space. I can see the lexis whirring round inside his head, his brain working itself into a frenzy. His mechanism scream to life, still not used to having to work so hard to form simple cognitions. I watch his face narrowly; his eyes are not even blinking. He is frozen in one place. God knows what rushes around inside him although you can tell that the thoughts are not new or embryonic, they are thoughts he has had many times before. Now he has a new notion to add: my letter. I wrote that letter an extensive time ago. It was long before I snapped that womans neck with my hands and snatched her breath away. They call that premeditated. I call that sense. No sense in doing anything if you are not going to make a plan. Spontaneity is not a desirable trait, it stinks of recklessness. It does not matter that I never knew the woman I killed. She was nothing but a ruse to scare and manipulate him before he becomes mine. So it seemed hollow to find out her name, I watched her, like I watch him and never did she say it, she did not want me to know it. Every other avenue in her life I was led into through open doors. I knew enough about her to catch her alone when the sun was low in the sky. I followed her only for a measly few days, enough to learn her routine, her favourite places. It is amazing how much you can learn if you just listen and watch. I found out everything I needed to know. But never her name. Perhaps I should have waited before starting my torture on him, waited for a golden opportunity where he is at his most vulnerable. Wait for a time when every letter and photograph will send his head reeling. Patience is a virtue and other such

obligatory clichs I suppose. I will wait and soon I shall be rewarded by delivering his head to myself on a shining silver platter. These thoughts soon evacuate my head as I watch him slicing into his skin. He is ready. He always has been. I have been watching him for as long I have been existing, it has been long enough to grasp his habits and learn the little things that make him tick; things I maybe already knew but it has been too long since I last laid my eyes on him to be sure he has not changed. We all change. Today I have been watching him ever since I slipped that note and photograph deep inside his newspaper and planted thoughts of me deep inside his brain. He never even took it out of the hall. He could never comprehend it. Perhaps he knows what he has done to me, or perhaps his mind disintegrated long enough ago for memories to be only a simple outline in the fog that inevitably descends. I pause for but a moment. He is silent. I am silent. Everything is silent. I wish he would move. One tiny insignificant movement. A quiver, a blink, a wriggle of the nose. Anything. It would just make everything feel worthwhile. I just want to know how he feels right now. I just want to know that I can cause him as much pain as he caused me. That is all, if only I could get closer. He is not that far away, really there is nothing between us. Nothing at all. All I have to do is move closer. God knows why Ive become so infatuated with revenge that I shall trouble myself with images of his death at my hands. Reach out and in one swift move he would be mine. God damn it would be so easy, but that would be stupid. Years of planning would be gone with the snap of his neck. That donkey would not even know I was there until it was too late. No suffering. No pain. But if I could just see it... just move that little bit closer.....

Flash I hear something. That was a definite noise outside the window. I move slowly, steps barely making a sound against the floor. I unlatch the window and pull it up, the cold air rushes in blowing my hair back from my face. I lean out until the sill is digging into my stomach. I stay there for two minutes forty-nine seconds biting into my lip. Should I say something? Speak to whoever or whatever is out there? No, thats not right. I move back inside leaving the window open letting in the wind. The wind is cold against my skin as I lay down across the sofa, my feet dangling over the edge. My neck is crooked up by the arm giving me the perfect view just over the window sill and out into the alleyway. I can hear the cats inside the bins feeding on what was left over from last time the sun went down and the evening ritual of consumption and waste began across the neighbourhood. My fingertips play with a loose nail in the floorboards, twisting it up and then back inside the safety of the wood, out then back in, out then back in. I let my eyes rest closed for a moment watching the colours move sluggishly behind my lids. I can hear more without the capacity of sight, my ears open up to a whole new world of sounds. I can hear the rats moving swiftly down the alley, I can hear the sewers running miles below the city and I can hear that spider on the window frame slowly devouring an innocent fly, the fly is screaming. A wave of tiredness moves through me. I cant remember when I last slept, but the sun has been replaced by the moon twice since then. My feet find my way to the master bedroom before Ive time to think, stepping atop that message before shutting the door behind them.

I pull the blind all the way down until only a small letterbox of sunlight peaks through and casts a thin beam onto the floor. Sometime between admiring a year-old front page and when my head hits the pillow I fall asleep, it wasnt an easy sleep because when I wake at six minutes past eight I am in a cold sweat all over and I can hear the shouting inside my head. I bite down hard on my tongue till I can taste the sharpness of blood. Stop it, I think. When I come fully into the world and have past the moments when the space is hazy and sounds arent clear. I pull a bottle of whisky out from under the bed and drink slowly and deliberately. Some of the golden liquid splatters onto my chest and shirt so I wipe it away with the back of my hand. I begin to raise myself from the bed when I hear someone from upstairs come down and exit through the front door. They pass dangerously close to my door; I move myself onto my elbows and listen hard. Waiting for them to try and get in, waiting for them to invade my space. Only when I am sure they have travelled far enough along the road for turning back to become an inconvenience do I feel the soles of my feet hit the carpet. I splash my face with the black water thats sitting in the kitchen sink and sit down at the table. I run my fingers along the grooves carved on the surface, they feel good. I should be at work, but its too late, I would only cause more trouble if I arrived now. I stare down the hallway to the piles of paper by the door. I cant just leave it there; it has no business being in my house. I might have to explain it, make excuses for someone who doesnt know what theyre talking about. I didnt kill anyone. Im sure about that. I stare again. I need to move it. I shift purposely towards the door and pull the message and the photograph into my space. I let them lie on the table. I cant touch it, its not sanitary. There is a sharp gust of wind and the papers fly into the air, I scrabble to pull them down, they cant be free, they just cant.

The sharp edge of the paper slices my finger, tiny droplets of blood peek to the surface. It doesnt look like my blood; it is a bright bright red, the blood in my arms is dark. I suck at my finger as the papers fall back down, I grab them with my free hand, they are creased by my fingers, I read the words again...
YOU KILLED HER

I rip them both down the middle, splitting the womans head in two, right down her nose and between her eyes. I toss them into the trash and sit back down. This was the day the second letter arrived.

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The second letter isnt delivered in the same way as the first. This one was underneath a large stone out in front of my brownstone; I saw it when I went outside having made the decision to go to work. Someone must have seen it. They are not blind. At least I am certain theyre not... but they could be. I went back inside... I have to hide... I cant go to work. Im not sure how long it was out there, but there was a strong wind yesterday, the kind that no envelope rock or no rock could survive. I wait before I open it. Theres no sense in rushing. Its not going to go anywhere, although I wish it would somehow disappear... leave me alone... just leave me alone. As I open it I check the envelope. Theres nothing unusual really, not really, except for its whiteness which should not be if it has been outside since yesterday. It should be dirty. I open it. I wait for a picture of a dead woman... for more lies... lies, but theres nothing. Well theres something but not what Id expected. I dont know what to think or how to react, Id imagined it and now its nothing like the pictures inside my head... nothing matches up...
I am watching you.

Thats what it says. Just the one line... the only thing it has in common with the first one.

I look around and there is no one there. So... he is not watching me. He cant be; I would be able to see him... yes? No? Please... I pull out the photograph... its a street. A street with buildings stretching up off the edge of the page and warping towards me, a street with no people on it and the sun sinking down below the horizon. Its a street. Its my street. I rip it down the middle until the east side is in my right hand and the west side is my left. Both sides go into the trash followed by the letter which I screw into a tight ball until Im sure no one would be able to unravel it and see what hes been saying. People cant believe what hes saying, they just cant. Its not true and I know its not, just like I know that the melting point of magnesium is six hundred and forty-eight point eight four degrees and that thirty-nine times three hundred and sixtyeight is ten thousand six hundred and seventy-two and where the sun will be at different times of the day. Mathematically I know Im right and what hes saying is a lie. I know that... I know that. Other people dont know that... men in suits could come and take me away... they dont know that the melting point of magnesium is six hundred and fortyeight point eight four degrees or that thirty-nine times three hundred and sixty-eight is ten thousand six hundred and seventy-two and where the sun will be at different times in the day but I do. I do. I watch the sun now and I know its time to go to work. I dont want to go. But I have to. Work is bad. Its not a happy place. Milo always says when you feel bad you should go and find a happy place. This is not a happy place. My work shirt itches and stings my skin until Im red raw. Skin shouldnt be red... it should be pink. Pink is normal.

Theres a lady at work. She has big hair all piled on top of her head. Milo says she is a family friend. Thats the specific word he uses. Friend. Shes not my friend. I dont like her and I dont like work. She tells me to do things I dont want to do. She showed me how to stack all the food in colourful packaging onto the shelves. I forgot what she showed me and she got angry because I didnt understand. She says I cant take any of the food home or rip the packaging because its new and cost her a lot of money but I do this anyway. She never knows. She also says that I cant speak to the customers who come in and give her money for the food; she says thats not my job. Thats not what Im paid for but Im not so sure she pays me at all. Im only here because Milo said that I should be. I am stacking the tins of black pepper that are blue with white dots when she comes over to tell me that Im doing it wrong. Some of the labels are facing the wrong way so people cannot read them. I dont know what black pepper is but I read the information on the tins and it doesnt sound like the sort of thing anyone should want to be buying. It sounds bad. She shows me how to do it with the labels facing towards me so I can read the black writing on the faded cream background. When she leaves I dont change what Im doing, I just put them on the shelves in whatever order I feel. She cant stop me. Its so loud today. So loud it makes my ears sting and cry. I used to wear my hat so I could pull it down over my ears but the lady with the big hair said that hats werent allowed whilst I am working. She said that they are not part of the uniform and that its not making her feel happy. She didnt say happy... she used a long word that I didnt understand so I looked it up at home and it means happy. But the tightness of her top doesnt make me feel happy but she still wears it. I dont like her. She is not my friend. Milo says I should be nice. I dont want to.

The sun is still high in the sky and peoples shadows outside are short and fight with each other for space. I have a long time until I can go home and lock my door behind me. She wont let me leave early. I want to go home. I said that to her once and she told me I was being stupid. Im not stupid... yes I am... no... Shes stupid... Im smart I know things... stupid. Flash Trivial as it may seem I need a new model, well, I want a new model. I need one to teach him another lesson; he has been destroying my finest work. Never have I produced such a fine photograph that so captures the female form in all of its curvature and he destroyed it, discarding it like it was of no more of worth than he is. I need another form to be forever paired with my fourth letter to him since I have already captured a piece to companion a warning him that his behaviour shall not continue, I want him to realise he cannot persist to acting like I do not exist. He must realise that I am in control, that I dominate him and that I am his reality. Perhaps I should cast a shadow upon his door once again. I have a third letter prepared; he should surmise that I will not let him escape and that I will know if he tries. I pray it shoots fear into that messed-up mind of his and tears him apart. I can use his paranoia that works so wonderfully in my favour to show him that I will not just disappear when he throws my work in the trash. Alas, all this planning is but meaningless if I do not have a model to pose so graciously for me. I am on watch constantly for the perfect woman. Although it is frequently more perfect if she is imperfect. The perfect girls do not excite me as someone who has hair out of place with a smudge of make-up. I can sometimes watch for hours without as much as one woman who would charm my camera into a frenzy of beauty and

willingness. But then... when you think all is lost you find the perfect model, the imperfect woman. She is shopping when I first lay my eyes on her. Hurrying between rails of clothes as if they might fly away if she does not grab them quickly. It seems to be that there is no sense in hurrying, I have all the time in the world, and so does she. Her appearance is not so important, long hair, pink cheeks, vibrant green dress but it is all surplus as when we are together it is nothing but skin and blood. I follow her. She has a husband; this excites me as now I will be able to torture more than one person with a minimal effort, although I remind myself I will never get anywhere if I am not willing to work for it. A child or even children would just be the icing on the cake ahh, there they are. It is a full school week for the children before I am confident enough to leave her for a few days whilst I remain certain he has not tried to escape me. She does not realise when I leave and I am not so certain she will notice when I return. I will develop the photographs of her as my own record of our time together, the days before she becomes nothing but a means to an end. Flash The sun is out. Its so very bright. So bright that I cant quite make out how high in the sky it is and the hours in the middle of the day merge into one long slur. I think I should have gone to work again today but now Im not so sure, I dont want to get into trouble but I just dont know. You cant be punished for something you dont know, at least, I think you cant. When the sunbeam comes through the window I can see a cobweb hanging between the light and the wall. Theres no spider but theres tiny eggs, she seems to have left her perfect cobweb and eggs all alone to fend for themselves. I wonder if shes ever coming back for them? If shell realise shes left them behind. They arent safe all alone by that window so I move

them inside carefully sliding a plate behind them and underneath so they dont fall. I put the plates by the sink, resting one against the wall and one on the unit, perpendicular to each other so the web stays fully formed and the eggs are safe. I am watching them so they dont feel scared and they know someone is there for them when I hear something slide under the door. I hide behind the wall and peer down the corridor towards my front door. Theres a white envelope on the mat, half in, half out, half of it penetrating my space, dirtying my home with its lies. I know what it is. I dont need to look. But, I think I want to look. I want to... maybe. I move towards it with my hands outstretched so to keep my body away from its evil at all times. I pull it out from underneath the door; its creased down the middle now. Theres a noise outside. I wait motionless on my knees on the mat. I move my head down till I scratch my cheek on the floor and peer under door. I cant see anything, but that doesnt mean hes not there. My hand is in a fist and I think my toes are curling somewhere under the weight of my body. I drop the letter and put my free hand over my nose and mouth so he cant hear me breathing, he cant know how close I am to him, he just cant. Theres a long pause while Im waiting and hes waiting. I still cant see him but I can feel him waiting for me to make a move. I can be brave... I can... I can... I open the door and stay crouched on the floor, my whole body encased within the edges of the mat, not one fibre over the side. Theres no one out there. He left before I had a chance to open the door, hes smarter than me. I crawl forwards and examine each direction down the outside corridor, theres definitely no one there, theres nothing there. He must have gone out of the front door, I would have

most definitely heard him if he went for the stairs, those stairs scream if you step on them. I close the door and lock it tight to make sure he cant come back and invade my space and my privacy. I tug at the handle to make sure its locked tight. It is. I stay sat within the confines of the mat and turn the letter over and over in my hands until Ive seen both sides hundreds of times. Its spotless, almost as if he wiped it clean before pushing it under my door and into my space. I rip open the top of the white envelope and pull out whats inside. I think Im shaking, my leg slips off the edge of the mat and I have to pull it back in towards me and it hurts my tendons. I look at the letter first. The ink is much more faded on this one, as if the typewriter was struggling to breathe out its last words as fingers pounded hard onto the keys.
I do not appreciate you destroying my work Mr. Riley. It will not do you well to continue.

He knows. He knows what I did to his letters; he knows that theyre in my trash. He knows... how can he know? How? I dont like this. I bite down on my lip until I can taste blood. But it doesnt make any difference. I dont like it. I move the letter to one side and take the photograph in all at once. It is distorted into a sphere, its blurry but theres no mistaking the front door of my building. I drop the photograph on the floor in front of me and push myself back against the door. He was here, he must have been. I was right. This means I was right. I cant just sit here. I was right and thats a good thing. I can do anything if Im a good person, thats how it works. I go to the trash and fish out the last two letters I threw away. They are buried under food from before today and other things I have no use for. I take them out and lay them on the table and re-arrange them until I can see the womans face

again and read the words he sent me. I dont like it but I have to do something. Maybe I could show someone... No... NO... I scratch against my wrist and press down until the skin tears off... stupid... dont think like that... theyll take you away and put you back in that place... no... stupid. But what can I do? Im no good... I cant do what other people do... the not normal people... maybe I need to be not normal to... no... help... no... I cant he always said I cant, I cant do anything... I know that... I know.