I remember when I first saw you. That summer was warm, and as the sky turned several shades of pink, and the ocean beat against the rocks like an angry animal, and the sounds of the annual city festival played with the air around me, I couldn’t help but see you sitting on the grass, twiddling a flower in your fingers, staring out at the sea as if it were the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Your hat was on the earth beside you, your black hair waving slightly in the breeze. You pressed your knees up against your chest, and even though your face was strong, and I could tell from your distant eyes that you’d been through a lot, you seemed so small, as though you were tired of being strong. You seemed so innocent then, so trustable.
That’s probably one of the only times I’ve ever seen that gentle side of you.
I forgot about you, the strange man in the dark purple suit, and your faraway expression. When I moved to the city, with the living machinery and late-night trains, I soon forgot about the ocean as well, and the gorgeous rolling hills I’d once called my home. I forgot about the stars, I forgot about how, on certain clear nights, one could see perfectly the huge planet our small one orbits. I forgot about those festivals with the old storytellers, the young musicians, and the barefoot girls in dresses dancing to their tunes. I forgot about the people selling trinkets, and the games the little ones used to play. I forgot about you, and I forgot about the place I belonged.
But unlike my hometown, you followed me.
Of course, I didn’t know because in my dreams, in my nightmares, you were a monster. A giant, black creature with too many legs and a grinning mouth of sharp, white teeth. Because of those nightmares, I was terrified of any kind of insect, especially spiders and bees. I was teased in school, more than usual, not only of my overly intense fear of insects, but because I often spoke of spiders in purple top hats and wasps with purple canes. They treated me as though I was insane, and for such a long time, I thought I was, too. I became an outcast.
My parents began sending me to regular therapy. My therapist, Mr. Jembol, was a middle aged man who desperately tried to hide the fact that he was going bald. He was really a horrible listener, and often stopped me in the middle of what I was saying to tell me his opinion. At one point he told me to draw you on a piece of paper. He thought the picture of a black spider with wasp wings and a purple top hat and cane was fairly comical, but I later had to burn the paper and wash away the ashes to stop from crying.
Why did you haunt my life so much? Why did you make my nights horrors? Why, when I’d only ever seen you once before?
It's ok, Mau, he's not doing it on purpose.
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