"The Eye of Fear" (Life Sketch)

There he stood, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes staring unblinkingly at our home. His greasy, tangled hair swayed gently with the afternoon breeze, his eyes never breaking contact with our home. He simple stood at the edge of his driveway across the street from us, staring. This was not a new behavior; he did this every afternoon, like clockwork. Undoubtedly, it was strange for a neighbor; he was a new addition to the neighborhood, renting a room in the house across from mine. For weeks, he did this. Whether he would stand in his driveway, or sit in his car, he would stare at our home.

Every day during that summer, I would crouch near the windowsill, shadowed by the sheer curtains and the blinds. What was he thinking? What was he staring at every day? I would sit there and peer over the window ledge; my mind was boggled for I could not understand his peculiar behavior. All I knew for certain, however, was that my stomach would tie into knots and a lump would form in my throat, leaving me choking on air whenever I would catch a glimpse of his eyes; there was something hidden behind those glassy eyes, and I was not sure if I liked it.

He would drive away during parts of the day, only to return with the clanking of bottles following his steps back into his house. For someone living alone, the clinking of the bottles never seemed to cease. This is how we would know he was home; whether it was the clatter of filled or empty beer bottles, or the mysterious angry shouts in the quiet of the night, we would know that he was there.

During the day, my mother would not allow me to go outside of the house if that man was home. Whether he was outside or inside, it did not matter to her; she would not let me out. As I gazed at her in puzzlement, she simply looked away nervously. Maybe one day, I thought, I’ll understand my mother’s reasoning, although it seems so silly right now. Therefore, for now, I would simply stay inside, only to watch the world from the window. I would be safe in the confinement of my home, right?

Then one day, one just like any other summer afternoon, I sat in our living room, playing with a new pair of binoculars that my grandfather had left me after he passed on to the next life. It was a beautiful item, one that he used often to watch birds and explore nature. My ears perked as I heard the man enter his car; however, his engine did not start. Today, I thought, must be his day simply to sit in his car. Then, I looked down at the pair of binoculars in my hands, the black smoothness of its surface cooling my palms and fingertips. My eyes glanced at the window, then back down to the item in my hands. Slowly, I crept towards the windowsill, crawling like an army fighter training under the barbed wires. Stealthily, I positioned myself just below the windowsill, binoculars in hand. I just wanted to catch one good look at this unusual man, a closer look of the man with the tangled hair, shadowed eyes, and eerie aura around him. It would be one, simple glance through the binoculars; one good look was all I needed to fulfill my curiosity about the man who made my mother on edge, the man who watched us.

Carefully, I peered over the window ledge, gazing through the binoculars. What once seemed so far away now looked as if it was at the tip of my nose. I focused upon my target; the image was so clear. Then, my heart stopped. What was only a sheer second felt like long, drawn out hours; a cold sweat broke across my forehead as my mouth became dry. I stopped breathing. Paralysis overtook my body, as every inch of me became numb. Frozen.

A gasp escaped my lips as I quickly dropped my binoculars and skidded across the floor, as far away from that window as I could manage. The carpet burned my leg, but I could not feel the ache of my flesh; I could only feel a lightening shiver go down my spine; my body began to convulse.  Lying in the middle of the living room floor, I curled into the fetal position, closely hugging my knees to my chest, feeling the soft comfort of the carpet against my icy cheek. I closed my eyes, trying to forget the image that would forever haunt my memories.

I had always thought that the man was watching our home. Perhaps he stood and stared at our home because he had liked the architecture, or our front lawn. That is what I had thought. On that haunting summer day, however, I had learned the truth. All those days, all those moments, he had not been staring at our paint job or the flowers in our yard. On that day, he had been crouched in his car, with a pair of binoculars in hand, staring right back at me. He was not just staring. He was watching me.