IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK

They See You

Fiction

The landscape runs through your window — vast fields of endless cotton candy. White and fluffy the mantle of snow covers the valleys, and you can’t help but marvel at the dissonance between the shimmering pale and the ocean-blue skies.

It’s mind-boggling — that sight of a clear contrast. You can even see the horizon. Reminds me of one of those postcards at Barnes & Noble — you think whilst clenching your palms. Where’s the heating? — a thought flashes as you inspect the car panel. Who knew winters could be this cold in North America?

It’s a funny thing — Life. One day you’re happily going about your business here… and then the other — you find yourself there. Technically, it’s the new here. But the mind is hazy.

Perhaps my brain is endless fields of cotton candy.

Nevertheless, as heat finds its way to your fingertips, you can’t help yourself but marvel at the sight of your life passing. It flashes in contrasts — white and blue, blue and white. It’s but a landscape, yet it’s a new life.

A deep sigh echoes through the car as you let out a breath crushing your lungs. Many places live within you. And your soul made a home in more places than you could count.

You miss the kvass. You long for the sound of whispering trees wrapping around when you’re out for a walk by the lake. Your mouth waters remembering the sweet taste of turron. And where did the windpipes go?

…Sleep, Dearie, Sleep…

Perhaps I miss home — a thought slithers through the cold window as you realise: you hate this contrast. Splashed colours of white and blue… You hate them. You are the leaden skies and the endless pit of words describing a hundred types of rain.

It hardly ever rains here — you scoff. It’s not that you like the rain, but it’s comforting. The sky itself cries for the life you’re living. It’s appropriate. Cold teardrops slashing through your heart. Coalescence — the teardrops merging into a perfect shape.

Damn — you let out a frustrated sigh as the face of your high school chemistry teacher finds its way to your mind. You hated her, and the discipline hated you. But you liked it and there was that secret hope that one day — with enough effort — you might just be good. Not good good, but decent enough to enjoy it.

School. Busy after-class activities. Exams. Universities. Conferences and research papers. Internships and first jobs you walked out from. Doors opened and doors closed. They say there would be a window, but you only found a brick wall. There’s a whole sky to observe — you only need to climb to the roof. Or lose it. There’s nothing quite like the sound of your sanity - slowly slipping away.

Slithering, slithering…

The car pulls over and you’re taken aback — a two-hour ride flashed whites and blues as if it never happened. How funny the concept of time is.

You wrap up your scarf, zip up the coat, mittens and bag — ready to go. Doors open and people burst out from the car — Damn, I will need to make conversation. You double-check your book, fish out the headset, mentally tick off the boxes and sink into the fluffy foams of white snow.

It crushes under your feet and you mould yourself into the pathway of footsteps that trail behind. Thank gods it’s freezing cold — you think to yourself as the feet stomp through fresh heaps of snow. Crisp air peels your skin and the lungs burn with each inhale. Still better than talking.

By the time the door finally opens, you find yourself wheezing. Goddamn icicle. I feel like a snowman. Minus 20 degrees! Who in their right mind goes skiing — it’s bloody Antarctica!

You shake off the wind, brush away the snow. Thirsty sips of warm air. A fireplace cracking in the corner. Generous pints of beer and the oily smell of french fries. Happy adult eyes smiling. Overexcited children jumping around.

So, this is what an American ski resort looks like.

It’s not that you got tricked — they said there will be people. Of course, they know you’re not one to mingle. But they wish you good — they always do. As they ski the week away, they want you to soak in good music, taste the finest of foods, sit by the fire and read. You won’t belong and they know it, but they wish you could try.

Your fingertips trace wooden tables. You navigate the first floor, then — go up, then — go down. Cheerful laughter tingles your ears, and you find yourself staring at Thurston. Americans love magic, don’t they? — you think as a sense of camaraderie finds its way to your stomach. You and I — we don’t belong here.

The stomach turns and so does the sentiment. Like Pavlov’s dog, you’re salivating at the aroma of over-fried foods. So much for camaraderie — let’s get something to eat.

You waltz towards the bar, randomly choose, ask for a coffee and vanish to the furthest corner available. It’s a small table and the view is so-so. You’re confident: no one will claim their rights to the two chairs in front of you. It’s a massive wooden cabin on a Monday afternoon.

Teeth sink into the crispy chicken — you greedily devour. No one kicks an eating dog. Notes spill into the air and music deafens the senses. Coffee quenches your thirst — for life, for tolerance. It’s not an addiction, it’s a way to cope with people.

You would live an inverted life — sleep all day, work at night. Ice skate through the surface, leave intricate little marks. You bruised it. People would wake up to discover bruising on the ice. That’s enough — it leaves a trace. You don’t need more than that. You’re happy being a tiny mark on the ice.

But they don’t want you to be a small little crack. You chew your crispy chicken and yet another pair come your way. Small conversation and polite smiles. You wonder if it’s possible to chew anxiety and discomfort away.

Why do people talk to strangers? Why do strangers seem interesting to talk to?

As you order a top-up and another cup of coffee finds its way to your lips, a man weasels his way into the chair. He asks, of course, but it’s too late, too little — after all, he’s already making himself comfortable.

A polite smile plasters your face as you fish out the book — hunger comes in many ways. The stomach is full, but the mind is still ablaze. You need to quench the fever. As your eyes run through the pages, the mind hallucinates lands far beyond reach.

“I bet the movie is better,” an overconfident tone wakes me from the slumber. One would think an open book is a hint enough. One would consider it bad manners to interrupt. After all, we’re all strangers.

But it seems no one is a stranger — not when you’re in this land of opportunities. Not everyone is a friend, but just about anyone could be. The abundance of extroverts seeking to adopt an introvert. You would love nothing more but to be left to your own devices. But they come. Butterflies to the flame.

You could imagine the slithering smoke. Little holes, slowly incinerating. Big holes eating the wings. But they still fly. Is it because of winter? Twenty-something degrees freezing the soul. Do they think you warm? But you’re the winter. Or perhaps the everlasting leaden skies of England, an eternal autumn. But their eyes see the equinox.

You hate the dissonance between the blue sky and cotton-white snow. But you are the contrast. Ephemeral. Fleeting. Phantasmagoric.

You want to be alone. You want to be with the mountains, with the book. Sink away into the depths of music. Drown and be erased in the vast oceans of people.

But they see you.

My scribbles dive into a variety of topics. Yet whether I scribble fantasy or horror, highly opinionated or research-driven pieces, I hope it leaves you with something to ponder: makes you feel better (or worse?), strikes an inner monologue (hopefully, voiced out in the comments!) or simply gives you something to chew on, inspiring to keep the creative ball rolling.

Thank you for reading!