The Tombstone

Away

March 14 1996

Journal,
I am getting that feeling again. The feeling as if someone is watching close by. The feeling I got a few years ago, and soon realized I felt that way because it was the truth. Someone was watching me, following me. Once Mum and I went to the police, it just, stopped suddenly. That feeling sort of left. I still felt it kind of; the paranoid feeling, but the feeling of being watched itself was gone. It's hard to describe that feeling. It feels as if you're not safe in a way, if that makes sense. Like, the little hairs all over begin to prick up and stand straight. Goosebumps cover all over, and a chillness surrounds you. My stomach seemed to drop when I felt that feeling, and a lump began to rise in my throat. A lump that couldn't be swallowed. The paranoid feeling was completely different. It feels as if there are eyes peering at you in every direction, like in a spotlight. A glow is directed on you at all times. It feels as if everyone is watching you, not just one person. I felt that for awhile, but recently it began to stop and I have been out in the past year and I haven't been scared that man is back. Or at least I think it was a man. I haven't given it much thought if it was a women. But I find most crimes committed against girls are committed by guys. You hear that more often. I have gone out many times this past year and have gotten back to my life before I was being watched. I have been carefree for some time now; but the other day, that feeling hit me, like a train. Or a brick wall. Or a brick train. It slammed into me like bullets, and I felt my hairs stand up and the chilly feeling rushed back to me all too soon. Is he back? Or am I just over thinking all of this? What is happening? Will I ever feel normal again? Will this feeling ever pass? Or will I carry it with me all my life.

  "Stephanie!" Amy yelled from the stairs below, probably from the kitchen like always. Steph was drawn out of her thoughts with her mother's loud scream, put her pen down and rolled off her bed in the direction of her door.
  "What?" She yelled back as she opened her door flustered.
  "Come here for a second!" Her mother yelled back, but not in an angry tone. Ugh. She stepped down the stairs, letting a
*clonk*
noise drown the sound with every step. Step one. Two. Three. Four. And so on. As soon as she hit the bottom, she turned the corner towards the kitchen, and stepped down to the main floor.
  "Yeah, what would you like?" Steph asked in an annoyed tone, the way she would sometimes be when her mother would interrupt her writing.
  "I'm making dinner now, would you like to give me a hand?" Amy asked, without even looking up at Stephanie.
  "Mmmmm, not really."
  "Well, that wasn't exactly a question." They both laughed a bit, with Steph cracking a smile, something she really didn't want to do while she was trying to be mad.
  "Fine, but give me a moment, I was writing," Steph said before turning back around and walking back up the stairs.
  "Oh, writing anything good?" Her mother asked in a louder tone, knowing Steph was about half way up the stairs by then.
  "Not really," she shouted back, almost at the top step. Their house had hard wood floors, which creaked many times while people were using the stairs; mainly the third stair, seventh and tenth. Those stairs also were the route cause of many bruises Stephanie had as a child, running up them so fast many times, and her resulting in slipping on a few steps and landing rather roughly on the stairs that laid below.
Ouch.

  As she got to the top, she walked seven more feet to where her bedroom laid; the first room on the right. Her door was a dusty wood colour, with marks and scrapes on it from the years she would tape and screw on posters and paper onto the front of it; paper and posters that mainly had the name 'Stephanie' plastered on. But now she liked the door to look clean, and yanked the papers off. Her room was always the warmest in the house, mainly because she closed her vents so no cold air could fly in. She always felt so cold, but in reality never cold to the touch. Her room almost feeling like a sauna. As you walked in, her window was perfectly diagonal from her door, being at least ten feet apart. Polaroids of her and her friends—mostly her and Mary—hung and stuck onto her walls, sticking. The walls were painted a light grey, almost white in some lights. A dangerous colour in her eyes, as she felt it got dirty often. By her long window, dark grey curtains hung dully from a black rod that was screwed onto the wall above the window. Beside her window, her bed laid on the left, and a dresser on the right. A dresser that had multiple uses; storing clothes, use as a desk and also a makeup table, although Stephanie rarely put on makeup. Her skin already was clear—a gene she inherited from her mother—and exposed a subtle glow in pretty much any light. The only other product she used was mascara, which she only coated the littlest amount on. The jet black gave her golden eyes a bit of something extra. A bit of pop in a sense. A sense she enjoyed. But for her eyes, or her hair in that case, were not inherited by her mother that time. She got her eyes and hair from her dad's gene. Her mother had, one other time, spoke of her dad; a memory that came back then all of a sudden. But she never went into detail. All she spoke was how her father had once looked.
"Your Father, he possessed the same eye colour as you. He had those same, golden, wheat eyes you own Steph. Those dazzling, purifying eyes. And your hair as well. I remember how much I admired his hair. He wore it long at one point. Did you know that?" How could I?
Steph thought at the time, knowing her mother hadn't spoke of him much at all. "I loved his long hair, it suited him. He wore it the same you do now, natural. You have the same light, dirty blonde hair he did. And the waves, they look identical almost. The slight wave. The waves that curl and frame your face, and the wave that fall on your shoulders. Now that I think of it, his hair was about the same length as yours. Shoulder length. It looked nice on him, like it does on you. Looking at you, and thinking back at him, I can see you two look very much alike. Well, the closest a boy and girl can look. I had mentioned before how much I wanted him to grow it out long. I mean, real long. Longer than shoulder length, but he never went for that, no matter how much I begged. Never."