DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
The thing in the window. It haunts me. If I look or do not, it makes no difference. It wears a clown mask with fiery hair and a collared shirt and overalls. The curtain is half drawn.
I like to imagine what’s behind it, there in the darkness. Is it lonely, and it wears the mask to hide its sadness?
It’s gloomy outside, though it always is. Where does its hair find its fire in the gloom? Does its thoughts kindle the fire? What does it think?
I do not know why I call it an it. It is clearly a man. His collard shirt and overalls lie flat against his chest. Such a strange combination, to wear such things while dwelling inside an apartment. The stucco at the windows corner is peeled away, the frame chipped, bowed. As if the frame wishes to break free, to let him out.
Children play on the street. Running in circles, throwing stones. A game I do not recognize. Does the man with the clown mask hope they look up to see fuel for their nightmares? They are in a group now, strong in numbers, but when their mothers call them in for supper, they’ll sit at the table, appetites lost, dreading the solitude of their rooms, because they are big boys and girls who don’t sleep with Mommy and Daddy anymore. They have their own rooms. They have their own windows.
Can they see him if they look out? Do they dare look out? So many questions that will never be answered. Or will they? There I go again. Always asking, never answering.
Should I answer? Perhaps I should. To put an end to all the questions, though I fear there will be more. I do fear. Other things. Oh, I forgot to mention that. I have this odd habit of changing the subject from time to time, regardless of the vector of conversation. Vectors are sharp. Aren’t they? I suppose all directions have sharp edges, for they must cut through time and space. Vectors are also organic. Organisms that transmit, specifically.
Where was I going with this? There, another question. I look across the way to avoid any more questions, to see if he will ask me any as he looks, or at least appears to look, at me from a distance I could jump. Perhaps. I could open my window and try. The fall would be disastrous, though. I try to count the floors but lose count after two. I should be able to count higher than that, because I am an educated man.
Raised on a farmstead, sure, with livestock and everything. But I broke all the stereotypes. Good with words and numbers. I always loved numbers. I count the children before they go inside, so I will know if he takes any in the night, and then I will have the evidence to have him removed, convicted, incarcerated. Executed? And why not? He is not a positive force in this world. I don’t know him, but I do. You can tell a lot about someone’s appearance. They tell you to not judge a book by its cover, but that is a lie. It’s a lie they wish to persist, so they are the only ones who know the truth.
Wow. Look at me. I sound mad. I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I hypothesize only on data. Remember, I am a man of numbers. Words, too, as I mentioned, but I’m sure by now you can see that they churn like . . . Hah. Look at me. At a loss for words. Perhaps I will find the right one if I give it time. Words are like that. They need time. Not like numbers. Numbers flow like the children who now dash inside for supper, then to hide under their bedsheets because they are too frightened to draw the curtains. They know he’s there, looking from above, though he does not appear to look down. They think if they do not look up, he won’t be there. Funny, children thinking that the universe adheres to their observations. They are right to a degree, I suppose. The observer effect, in physics. See, I told you I was a learned man. Physics relies on numbers, so I naturally migrated into adjacent fields of study.
But you don’t care about that, do you? Whoever you are. Listening. Reading. Like him. He does read me, because he cannot hear through the glass. He never sleeps or steps away from the window. I stayed up three days straight once. Never got up even to use the restroom. I won’t bore you with the details. It was for science, which can require great sacrifice.
He knows that with his face that defiles an image created to bring children joy. At least in modern times. But he could be older. Far older. In which case his meaning is anyone’s guess. But that smile, with jagged teeth, curving far beyond what’s physically possible. It hints at other meanings. Hunger. Predation.
That’s why I remain here, at my window, allowing him to haunt me. If I close the curtain completely, I fear he will strike. If I dare look away, even to clean the cobweb in the corner of the window in the corner of my vision, he will strike. If I dare to pass the time by touching up the chipped paint on the window sill, he will strike.
I must live this life to protect the children in their beds, so they may sleep soundly. Safely. When I look, he looks, so I must look at him. I risk a glance at the children just to count them when morning comes. He knows the number, too. Because he looks, too.
He must be a man of numbers, like me. Of words, I cannot say.
The children churn like . . . a rush of blood. Grim but accurate. The right phrase is important. I knew it would come to me eventually.
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