Page 51 of Stalker's Toy

Other people watching her, holding her, getting into placesmeant for me.

My pulse kicks up, fast and erratic.

Panic creeping in.

Without meaning to, I walk to my studio.

I grab a pencil, try to focus the anxiety by sketching her.

Those scars.

That perfect tension of ink on paper.

It’s not right.

It’s never right when I’m like this, too scattered, too full of need.

I smear the lines with my hand.

Smudge them into oblivion.

Smash the page into the trash.

Then I sit, legs twitching, waiting for my mother to come back so I can finish my duties and return to my obsession.

God, how did I get this weak?

No sooner do I finish the thought and she’s there, leaning on the door watching me as I stand in the middle of my art studio.

"Henrik," she sings, all warmth and lipstick smiles. "Why did you move from your stuffy office to your stuffy studio? Let’s go out."

It's like she doesn't see the work piled on my desk.

The stacks of art books and contracts and sketches, everything I use to hold this life together.

She's always been this way, expecting my full attention, demanding my entire self, turning me into a child again.

I love her, but not the chaos she drags with her, the way she makes everything spin.

I shrug, trying to keep it light, trying not to snap. "I’m busy," I say, hoping she'll get the hint.

She doesn’t. "You really should take advantage of the sunshine. Come out and enjoy the day. Enjoy it with me."

Sweetness drips from her words like poison.

It’s how she controls, how she makes me feel guilty for having a life.

An agenda.

It needles me, the way she slides into town and expects to slide into my plans.

It makes me tense and irritable.

"Henrik," she says, louder this time, that edge of impatience sharpening her voice. "It'll be fun. We'll have the whole day together. I can't wait. I’m here, but not for long. Let’s spend time together before I go."

I watch the words spill from her mouth like they've already been agreed upon.

I'm irritated.

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