The Stranger - Part 1

A new series that will begin very soon! Let me know what you think :) This is a shorter chapter, the following ones will be standard length. 

All characters are consenting adults (18+) 

Does he live alone? If so, how? He’s young, too young to afford a house like that. Or maybe he just looks young. I’d give him twenty three or twenty four, not a second older. Does he get bored over there on his own? Why doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Or… A boyfriend? Wishful thinking, indeed, but why not a dog? Maybe he’s a cat person. Maybe he’s not an animal person at all. A worrying thought. Not enough to turn me off him… Not that I’m turned on in the first place. Turned on? A perfect example of my inability to speak.

Does he have friends? If he does, where were they? If I had friends and a house to myself, I’d never be alone. Alas, I have neither. He does though, he has the house, at least. Or does he? I’m assuming now, because technically, it might not be his at all. Perhaps he has a sick family member who’s bed bound. Does he take care of his sick family member? His mother, maybe? Or his father? Grandparent? The possibilities are endless.

Dad knocks on the door behind me and switches on the light before I have time to pull the blinds. Luckily, the mysterious neighbour pays no attention to anything but the book in his hand, so I avoid detection for the fifth night in a row.

“This place is a fucking mess, Elliot”. He’s drunk, but that’s nothing new. He does have a point though, I’ve been having one of those weeks. Well, I’ve been having one of those weeks for months now.

“I’ll clean it in the morning” I tell him, which is a lie. I won’t clean it in the morning, nor will I clean it at all until I feel marginally capable of leaving the room in the first place.

“You can’t stay here forever” he says, though he’s been saying that since I was fourteen, and as of yet, he’s been entirely incorrect. “You need to go out and make friends” he sighs. It’s one of those tired sighs. He’s exhausted from work. He’s exhausted from me, too.

“I will”. Another lie. I most certainly wont.

“Yeah, so you keep saying” he sighs again, and sits on my unmade bed. He looks older than he’s ever been before. I suppose that’s a natural part of ageing, but it’s different. He has wrinkles that didn’t exist yesterday. His eyes are shaded. His shoulders, hunched. I’m the cause of it, I need nobody to remind me.

“I’ll try harder” I tell him, and that’s not as much of a lie as the others have been. I will try. I won’t succeed, but I haven’t said a word about succeeding.

“I know you will, son” he says, and gives me a weathered smile. He used to be very handsome. That’s where I got it from, apparently, but the last time I looked in a mirror and saw something handsome staring back, was during a particularly absurd dream a few years prior.

“Who’s that across the street?” I ask, diverting attention to something that isn’t my total failure at existing. He shrugs, says no idea, and I decide to drop it before questions start being asked.

“Your mother called today”. The sentence makes my insides squirm. I’d rather not know, but he tells me every time, anyway. There’s nothing I’d rather know less, but I know how much it means to him.

“How is she?”

His silence tells me everything I need to know. “Another relapse?” I ask.

“She’s trying, Elliot”.

“So am I”.

“No, she’s really trying”.

I could argue with him, but nobody ever wins. Dad gets angry, I get upset, and we don’t speak to each other for three days. It’s not worth it, so I say nothing.

“You haven’t left this bedroom in nearly three weeks” he continues. “You won’t take your medication, and you won’t talk to me. I don’t know what to do with you anymore, son”.

He’s not arguing. He’s venting.

“I love you more than anything else in the world, Elliot, but I’m out of ideas”.

So am I. The medication doesn’t work and my bedroom is the only place where I can exist without feeling as though I’ll throw up. I’m a burden, and I’m very much aware of that fact.

“Try to clean some of this tomorrow, bud, okay?” He says, and gets to his feet. I nod. He kisses me on the head, and notices the stranger across the street, sitting on his porch reading his book.

“Must be new” he says, “maybe you should go and introduce yourself”.

I laugh. It’s the first genuine laugh I’ve had all week. What a ridiculous idea. Even Dad laughs. “Goodnight, son”.

“Night, Dad”.

When the light goes out and Dad leaves to finish a case of beer, I turn back and watch him once more. It’s almost ten o’ clock, and he hasn’t moved except to use the bathroom, or maybe check in on his sick family member, or his pet, if he even has a pet.

The porch light turns half of his face orange. His brows are creased together as he scans the pages. Like his hair, they’re jet black. He’s got a powerful jawline, and whatever he’s reading must be exciting, because he’s clenching it every so often. He turns the page like a teacher. He slides his finger across his tongue and grips the corner. It’s very attractive.

I want to know his name. I don’t know why, but I do. I feel like by knowing his name, I’ll be a step closer to knowing him. Of course, neither of those things will ever happen so I decide to call him The Stranger instead, and I watch as The Stranger bites his fingernail, and wonder how a book could make somebody so excited.

By the time he’s finished, I realise that I haven’t taken my eyes off him. It’s nice to watch somebody live a life, even if I can’t live mine. He’s so full of zest. He takes a moment to reflect on what he’s just read, shakes his head and laughs to himself. It’s a confident laugh. An I don’t care what anybody thinks of me laughing on my own in the middle of the night laugh. I envy that laugh.

The Stranger stands up and stretches his impressive body. He’s wearing smart clothes. Smart casual if I’m not mistaken. A light blue shirt that looks as though it’s spent most of it’s day tucked into his pants, and a pair of neat slacks. I also envy the end of his shirt, though I can’t let my mind get too carried away. This isn’t the type of town that welcomes such depraved fantasies.

He leans on the wooden rail and looks up and down the street like he’s waiting for someone. Maybe he is. A girlfriend, probably. He checks his watch, takes another look, and then pulls a single cigarette from his shirt pocket. He slides it under his nose, inhaling the sharp scent of fresh tobacco, and slips it between two plump lips. He lights it, sucks a mouthful of smoke out, and lets it billow into the darkness. It looks like it’s relaxed him after his wild night of reading.

By now, my eyelids are heavy. I’ve been spying on The Stranger for over two hours, and I wonder how he’d react if he knew. Judging by his build, he’d certainly be the type confront me about such odd behaviour. I can almost picture him grabbing me against a wall, his strong hand wrapping around my throat, his piercing eyes glaring into mine, his breath pouring over me.

I crawl into bed when he goes inside. The remainder of my fantasy continues into my dreams, but instead of The Stranger demanding an explanation, he presses his lips to mine, and when I wake the following morning, the bedsheets are added to my list of things to clean.