[EU] My book series Trackers

　　A friend of mine once described her anxiety disorder to me, since I played video games, as hearing the boss music all the time. When my ordeal started, that was the best metaphor I was able to come up with. Several months after our first date, there was a tightness in my chest, a tenseness in my muscles, a stiffness to my stance that was ever-present. And it hadn`t all happened at once. It had built up, layer by layer, pound by pound, into a weight I bore constantly.

　　The first date happened in a way that I wasn`t expecting but was one of the few ways I was comfortable being approached in public by a guy. I was reading the latest book in a series I adored, it had just been released that day, and he had come up to me. He looked reluctant, even more so to interrupt someone reading a good book, but said he was literally about to go buy the book after his lunch break; he loved the series too. He introduced himself, Robert Miles, and joined me at my small table.

　　We got to talking, bonding over the characters, though I was strict with myself on spoilers for the first half of the book in front of me that I`d finished so far. He offered his number, and I accepted. Robert and I went on a few dates, but I`d say as much as we might have hit it off over the book series, we just weren`t couples material. And it was clear that he had somehow ended up head over heels for me, which I really didn`t want to result in me leading him on, so I broke it off.

　　It was a week or so later that I received a message on a dating app I`d recently joined. I found most of the guys who sent out messages were playing a numbers game, but this one, Jim, had actually went through my profile to check out things we had in common. His profile was appealing, even funny in a few spots, so we went out.

　　We had a good time, saw a couple movies, kissed a few times to close out our dates. He was really athletic, and a few times invited me to watch him play rugby with some of his friends, which was pretty fun. But there was something about his sense of humor, at least on social media, that didn`t mesh with me. Almost as if he took things too far and got off on insults. I mentioned it to him and he got upset, defensive, trying to talk me into seeing his side of the hilarity. We ended up breaking up then and there, unfriended each other on Facebook, and we moved on. Or so I thought.

　　When I was introduced to a new employee at Target the next week, Bobby, he didn`t seem at all familiar. He was actually strikingly attractive and several of the girls here gave him lingering looks, but he was aloof, concentrating mostly on his work, which there was always more of. And he was in hard lines and I was soft lines, so we didn`t often cross paths aside from the break room. A few weeks after that, he and I had a break together and he asked to sit with me as we both ate, and I said sure.

　　The conversation was stilted, as if he was trying to let me lead in a dance he`d initiated. I don`t recall the exact path it took, but it ended up with him shoving his chair back from the table, obviously irritated. "What is it you`re looking for in a guy, exactly?" he`d asked.

　　I blinked, taken aback, and glanced to the other two employees in the room, who had suddenly taken an interest in whatever drama had started to unfold. "I`m sorry?" I managed.

　　"A man who falls in love with every piece of you? Or a tough guy, not afraid to get rough with the guys? Apparently not a man who is gorgeous, who plays hard to get," he said, motioning to himself. "You`re an absolutely amazing woman, in every way," he whispered. Something about his tone sent hair-raising goose bumps rippling over my skin. "Who could you see yourself falling in love with?"

　　"I&" My eyes darting back and forth to the other two employees, who were now definitely straining to hear the conversation but also paying an extreme amount of attention to the food in front of them. "I-I think that`s a pretty&personal question," I finally choked out.

　　He stared at me, as if in shock. Then he got up and walked out of the room, leaving me to sit in the toxic atmosphere he`d left behind. My hand went to my forehead. What had just happened?

　　Despite my best efforts, the rest of my shift was dominated by that conversation and how uncomfortable it had made me, and I made the reluctant stop at my supervisor`s office to explain the situation.

　　"All right," Denise sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I`m sorry, you said his name was Bobby? We`ve got three of them on the roster."

　　"He`s new, just started a few weeks ago," I explained. "Blonde hair, good-looking."

　　"Oh. That`s&" She stared at me oddly. "Bobby Miles quit earlier today. Rather upset about something."

　　That was the moment where everything shifted. My blood ran cold and my breath quickened. "What?" I whispered.

　　"He didn`t give a reason, but maybe he didn`t want to-"

　　"His last name," I snapped. "Miles? His name is Robert Miles?"

　　"Yeah, he just said he goes by Bobby," Denise said.

　　The room tilted a bit and I grabbed a hold of the armrests. Denise said something, but I didn`t hear her. The conversation that had been repeating in my head throughout the last few hours did so once more.

　　What is it you`re looking for in a guy exactly&?

　　In love with you&?

　　Tough guy&?

　　Plays hard to get&?

　　My eyes teared up despite my best efforts and I only noticed when Denise stopped talking. "Honey?" she asked, leaning forward, sensing my distress. "What is it? You look like you`ve seen a ghost."

　　My lower lip trembled. "I think&I think I have a stalker," I whispered. At that, Denise tried to comfort me, but there really wasn`t anything she could say.

　　When I went home that night, I felt like there were eyes on me the whole way home. When I finally got back to my apartment and shut the door behind me, I made sure to turn the deadbolt and hook the security chain. I leaned back against my door and slid to the ground, my purse hitting the floor beside me. I sat there for a while, my mind spinning, replaying moments over and over.

　　I had the next day off, so I went to the police, waiting an agonizing amount of time to only be told that they couldn`t tell me whether someone was a p鵦a, someone who could shapeshift, because it was classified under medical confidentiality. But they filed a case report, took down all the information I gave them, and told me that if I thought he was continuing his pursuit, to keep them updated. If I kept good records and presented them to a court, that could get me a restraining order, and that was how the cops could have grounds to take action.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it`s taken without the author`s consent. Report it.

　　My research online when I got home wasn`t much better. The law was almost powerless in these cases, from regular sapiens and up to parasapiens, because harm hadn`t actually been done to the victim. I scrolled through dozens of articles on people who fought back against stalkers, as well as Reddit threads from people who`d been personally stalked, whether or not they had made it out the other side yet, or ever would. Nothing gave me any real avenue of recourse.

　　The real tipping point was on my birthday. It was two weeks later, held at a local bowling alley called Lucky Strike, which did fun blacklight bowling and had a bar adjacent to the lanes. It was a wonderful night out with four of my friends, who I rarely saw in person, much less all together. I`d just grabbed my second appletini from the bar when I checked my phone, out of habit.

　　It`s Rhonda! First, my phone stolen this afternoon, that`s why the weird number. Now four flat tires! Who the hell did I piss off?? So sorry I`m running late, I should be able to get over there soon, the police just finished taking my statement.

　　My eyes slid up to the lanes and the alcohol buzz that had been building was gone in a flash, leaving me stone-cold sober and frozen with fear. As my mind spun, the glass I`d been holding slipped from my grasp, crashing to the floor, and even over the music, most of the people nearby heard the sound and looked my way.

　　My gaze locked onto the doppelganger of Rhonda and an itchiness built under my skin, as if my subconscious was desperate to get me back to full consciousness and ready for fight or flight. She only needed to stare back at me for a few moments before I saw comprehension dawn on her face. She darted to her left, grabbing her purse, and fled.

　　Tears finally came, floods of them, and I was shaking and barely able to get back to my other three friends who immediately came to my aid. I was led to a nearby chair and the only thing I was able to manage was, "That wasn`t Rhonda. That wasn`t her, that wasn`t Rhonda&"

　　A few minutes later, I was led out of the noisy bowling alley and into the quieter confines of the front entranceway. A foyer was built in to keep air conditioning from fleeing during the hot summer months, and we waited there for the police as I managed to first calm myself to the point of being able to speak clearly, then explained the situation. I`d only mentioned the stalker to Lisa so far, when we`d chatted on Facebook the night I`d gone to the police, and Heather and Janice were horrified.

　　Once Rhonda arrived half an hour later, telling her Uber driver to step on it, she immediately enveloped me in a hug. It was stiff, but I don`t think she noticed. If she did, she never would`ve ascribed it to what it really was - her face was no longer just hers. My subconscious spotted her and was promptly ready to bolt in the other direction.

　　My friends supportively took the lead on explaining the situation to the police, prompting me to speak up and expand on answers. They promised to send the case over to the FBI`s Trackers Unit, which dealt with any cases involving parasapiens. They did know his full name, assuming Robert Miles wasn`t an alias, but they reasoned that when he`d first met me, he hadn`t immediately known he`d need to use a tactic to cover his tracks, so it was likely.

　　Lisa brought me home, insisting on checking through my apartment for any intruders like she was some sort of security guard. That didn`t take long though, since it`s a studio with a tiny bathroom. She asked three times if I wanted her to stay, and eventually relented and left, encouraging me to call if I needed her.

　　As soon as I shut the door, locking it up tight, it hit me - how could I ever know who it really was if I was face to face with one of my friends? It could always be him. It would always be him, in the back of my mind, that niggling concern that he`d taken on someone else`s form again to get close to me.

　　Without consciously going about it, evident in hindsight, I started distancing myself from my friends. From everyone I trusted, really. I would call my parents back up north and they actually became concerned with how often I was calling, asking if everything was okay, or if I was sick, and Mom even asked if I`d had a bad breakup, which made me shudder. I couldn`t bring myself to tell them the truth. It was too scary to me to involve them, and also it felt like maybe, if they didn`t know about him, they could stay outside Robert`s sphere of knowledge about them. They would always be the one safe place I could turn.

　　I had some savings and decided to use quite a bit of it on home security. With permission from my landlord, I got a sturdier door with an iron lining, a better deadbolt, and had a security system installed. I constantly had my pepper spray with me, which was specialized for fae and therefore had iron particles mixed in, so it would affect a p鵦a particularly horribly. It was always in my right pocket, displacing my cell to my left one, and when I slept it was on my bedside table.

　　But it wasn`t enough. My paranoia drove me to get firearm lessons and buy a gun, loaded with iron-flecked rounds, which I always kept in my purse or my bedside table. I started to lose focus at work, imagining that any customer who approached me could be him in disguise. I only spoke with my friends on their phones or online, distrusting in-person meetings where they could be impersonated. And I hadn`t gone out in weeks, turning down every invitation I received.

　　One day Lisa turned up at my front door. The knock startled me and I grabbed my ever-present pepper spray, pausing the Netflix show I`d been watching. Approaching the door and checking through the peephole, I spotted her familiar face. "What are you doing here?" I asked.

　　"You haven`t been yourself lately, honey," she sighed. She lifted a bag within eyeshot. "I brought cupcakes from Tiffany`s. Your favorite. Can I come in?"

　　I hesitated before undoing the deadbolt, leaving on the chain. "It`s open," I told her.

　　Without any hesitation, she grabbed the doorknob and shoved at door, sending me staggering back. She shrieked as the iron burned her skin, but slamming the door over and over, she finally snapped the chain from its screws in the wall and stumbled inside, bag of cupcakes tossed to the side, forgotten.

　　My chest heaving with panicked breaths, I raised the pepper spray and hit Robert straight in the face. "Stay away from me!" I screamed.

　　He screamed, his hands desperately trying to block the onslaught, and he lunged forward toward me. I darted out of his path and scrambled for my bed.

　　"Don`t do this!" he cried. "Please, I love you!"

　　His words washed over me like water off a duck`s back. I pulled open the bedside table drawer as he continued toward me, aimed the gun, flicked the safety off, and fired. Again and again and again, my elbows locked and the kickback hitting me hard each time, the gunpowder sprinkling my hands with dozens of the tiniest of stings.

　　I stared. I had only managed to hit him once, but it was almost dead center of his chest. He didn`t fall right away. He moved his hands to his wound, as if trying to absorb what had happened, still blinded by the pepper spray, his eyes red and burning. Blood spread across his shirt and finally, as he coughed on a breath, he stumbled and fell to the ground. And so did I.

　　My ears rang with the echoes of the gunshots, so much louder than they`d been at the gun range with earmuffs. The gun dropped from my hands as they started shaking from the adrenaline. With fumbling fingers, I managed to get my phone from my pocket and dial 911.

　　"911, what is your emergency?"

　　"I just shot my stalker," I managed. "I-I think he`s dead."

　　The police arrived not too long later, finding me in shock, unable to do anything but stare at his corpse, his blood spreading across my linoleum flooring. A female officer sat with me until I was calm enough to give them my statement.

　　It`s been a month since I fired those shots, and I haven`t spent so much as a second regretting it. But he still haunts my nightmares, still creeps up in the back of my mind as a presence behind a face I think I know. That`s what therapy is for, my friends say, and they`re right. Because I`m going to get past this. One day, I`ll take my life back completely from Robert Miles. Now finally free from him forever, I refuse to let him take any more of my life from me. I refuse to let the fear win.

　　I refuse to let this trauma shape who I am.

　　Cover art from Pexels byElti Meshau