My students saw those pictures.
My second-graders. Why would anyone do such a thing to seven-year-olds?
The emails were sent during the first lunch period.
Paul continues to speak, while he plays the video, but I hear nothing. I see nothing.
I feel nothing.
I never understood what a suicidal thought was, until now.
It’s like every cell I’m made of seeps out from me, leaving me utterly empty, dead inside. The only escape I can see, reasonably to stop existing.
Paul shouts to get my attention. I flinch from the sound of his harsh voice. He’s asking me why I did this to him. I don’t understand why he thinks this has to do with him. “You ruined it for us,” he whispers, “we could have—” I close my eyes and ignore the rest. Us? I don’t know who this us he’s talking about is; I don’t even know who I am right now.
How am I going to be able to survive this?
The cops take my phone. My laptop. I told them this would happen when they first got here, but the story had already broken, I had been too frozen with fear and in shock to realize. That’s why they stayed so long. Not because of a burglary, but because everyone believes I’m a horrible monster who wants to scar children.
Everyone talks over me, through me. Paul has me wrapped up in his arms, but I don’t feel him at all. It’s like my body is floating somewhere above it all. It’s as if I’m already dead.
By dinner time I no longer have a job. I’m fired immediately. My belongings will be dropped off at my apartment sometime in the future, but I am not allowed within a specific distance of the school grounds. The headmaster talks at me over my phone. I’m not allowed to speak back or explain what I’ve gone through at all.
There is no such thing as innocent until proven guilty in my world.
On another news report a parent to one of my favorite students calls me a pedophile.
I remain sitting on the couch, motionless, devoid of any feeling, while the rest of the world keeps on moving around the sun without me.
Me, a pedophile? I wish that mountain would have crushed me.
I wake to the early morning sunlight streaming through my small front window. I slept dreamlessly, sometime in the night Paul slipped me one of his Xanax. It might have been two, I really don’t remember.
He’s still here. He’s in the kitchen, pouring water into my coffee maker, setting two cups out on the counter. He’s shirtless. Why is he shirtless in my kitchen? He’s unnaturally pale and hairy and far too past a boundary line for my taste.
“Paul? You’re still here?” I ask in a raspy voice. “Please put your shirt back on.”
He spins around and smiles sadly at me. “Of course, Claire.” He grabs his shirt off the table and shoves it quickly over his head. “I couldn’t see you being alone last night, so I stayed. Sorry, I was just trying to make myself a bit comfortable. How are you feeling?”
“Humiliated and very, very angry,” I say, clearing my throat. My life is gone now, and I need an escape. I need to start over somewhere—all thoughts of ending things are thankfully gone—I can’t let that psychopath win, the police will find out the truth and my name will be cleared, but when that time eventually comes, I’ll be long gone from here and from everyone who didn’t believe in me.
I stand up and stretch. My entire body feels weighted down and stiff. I must have been stagnant on that couch for too many hours. “Paul, thank you for staying, you could go, I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. You shouldn’t be here alone,” he says in a gentle voice.
I’m instantly getting that creepy-skin-crawling feeling again. “Paul, thank you,” I chuckle nervously. “I appreciate it, really, but I think I’m just going to shower and head to the police station to see if there’s anything—”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll take you,” he smiles.
“No need to, I promise I’ll be fine,” I smile tightly back.
“You don’t have a car, Claire. How are you going to get there?” he asks, shrugging.
My car is still on the mountain. How does he know that? Did I tell him that yesterday while I was in my shocked stupor? I need to think of something to get him to leave. I want to be alone. I want to face this alone. I don’t need him here. I don’t need anybody here.
“Paul, I’m going alone. Thank you for staying last night, but I need some space right now,” I say, tightly.
“But—”
“You can finish your coffee and then you can leave,” I growl loudly.
“Claire, really? After everything that happened yesterday, you think—”
“You accused me of sending those emails!” I screech, losing my patience. “That was the first thing you asked me when you got here yesterday.” I straighten out my clothes and tuck my hair behind my ears, hoping to put myself more together until I hit the bathroom. “I don’t have room in my life for people who underestimate me or think low of me.” What if it’s him? What if he’s the one texting me? What if I let the enemy sleep here last night? What if he goes feral and attacks me right now?
He shifts his weight from leg to leg and breathes out a long remorseful sigh. “Claire, I’m sorry if I said anything to make you believe I felt that way, but the way it looks…when I saw your name on the emails…and those images…what else would I assume? What else could anyone assume?”
“You can go now, fuck finishing your coffee. Get out of my apartment!” I explode, pointing my fingers in the direction of the front door.
He steps forward, closer to me, and I scream like I’m being attacked by a grizzly bear.
That makes him leave immediately.
I lock the door behind him and pour myself a cup of coffee with shaky hands. Outside a firecracker pops off and I jump from the sound, sloshing the hot coffee over the rim of the cup and over my fingers. I cry out in pain. Stupid teenagers.
I grab a towel and wipe down the mess I’ve made. There’s a strange expensive coffee brand on the counter, one I would never be able to buy myself. I toss the coffee into the sink without taking a sip. Who brought over coffee? God only knows if it’s rat-poison flavored.
I need to get the hell out of here now. I don’t feel safe.
I take a quick shower and blow-dry my hair. I throw on a pair of worn jeans and the only sweater that seems to be untouched by the insanity that tore through here in the last twenty-four hours. I search the apartment for anything I would need to take with me that might be of importance, but I really have nothing of value.
I almost jump out of my skin when I hear the mail carrier deliver my mail. I peek out of my window to make sure it’s only her, and watch as she walks carefully over the slippery sidewalk.
Should I really go through my mail? It’ll only be full of bills I can’t pay. I’m pretty sure my car insurance is due soon. Sighing, I end up stealthily unlocking the door and quickly slipping my arm out into the mailbox to grab the mail.
I slam the door closed and lock it back up immediately.
My stalker could be right outside, sharpening his skin-fileting knives.
The first piece of mail is a cream-colored envelope. Dropping the rest of the mail to the floor, I slowly turn the elegant-looking package over. My name and address are written in a beautiful fancy handwriting, the stamp in the corner says it was mailed out almost a week ago.