Page 9 of Gaze

“You know exactly what I mean!” She’s right, I do. Take the next step, prove our commitment. “And right now I want to look after you, and it’s really hard to do that when you are here.” Her voice is more exasperated now.

“I don't need looking after” I reply trying to divert this back to the here and now.

“I want to look after you Jen, and” I cut her off, I don't wait to hear the rest of the sentence. She’s probably going to tell me she loves me. I can't look at her, I know she is crying - she’s such an ugly crier I am sure if people knew they wouldn’t let her work in fashion. Everyone there must look like a movie star all the time, and when she cries she looks anything but.

“I don't need looking after, I have everything I need right here.” I said firmly gesturing to the room around me.

Lisa takes a moment, she rests her hands on her hips, a look of defiance across her face. “You are exhausting!” She finally gives in, she knows I won't be swayed in my decision. I can hear it in her voice, it's not anger, it's defeat.

I watch unflinching as she slides her shoes on and picks up her back, leaving the apartment in stony silence and me once again alone.

chapter

ten

The echoes of our argument silently reverberate off the walls. I turn my attention back to the window, lighting a cigarette. I extinguish the match with my bare fingers, pinching out the flame with my soft flesh. It hurts but I do nothing about it. She’ll be back; she always comes back.

It’s dusk, one of my favorite times to watch people. It’s when most of the windows are filled, people going about their evenings completely unaware of my presence.

Miss Torso is dancing around her room to the radio, the oscillating fan still working in vain to draw in cool air. She’s getting ready to go out, I can tell by the half-done face and baby pink cincher, the only item of clothing on her body. She looks happy, jubilant even, throwing herself into dance moves for a song I can't hear. I wonder what she is listening to? maybe the latest pop station or some of that new wave rave music people seem to inexplicably love. No, I decide she is listening to disco, a product of her childhood.

I scan my eyes further along looking again to my new window, a throb deep in my cunt as I slowly draw my eyes towards it tells me I am hopeful they are in. But my hopes are dashed when it’s dark and the curtains are drawn. It’s been days since I saw the occupants, I am starting to wonder if I imagined them. My own isolation is starting to make my mind hallucinate more interesting things than reality.

Letting my eyes lose focus I trail them across a selection of blurry windows like throwing a dart and letting it decide where I next look. I settle on a window that's barely lit, a soft pink hue coming from a lamp covered with a thin sheet of material.

Miss Prozac is sitting in the middle of her bed, surrounded by what looks like pictures and letters. Even from here I can tell she is crying. The gentle rise and fall of her chest as she picks each item up before putting it down again, I wonder what she is looking for. Maybe they are pictures of her ex-boyfriend, a misspent childhood or a lost loved one. I wish I could get a better look.

I can't help it, the curiosity wins out and I reach for the camera still on my desk, I flick it on with a satisfying click and wait for the viewfinder to come to life. I crank up the ISO, the image is grainy, but it lets more light in, I point the telephoto lens at Miss Prozac's apartment.

The situation is far worse than I feared, she is crying, eyeliner and mascara smudged down her face, and her top is damp with tears.

Never have I seen her in such detail, her hair is curly and dark hanging round her narrow heart shaped face. Her nails are painted a deep blue that matches the top she is wearing. She takes pride in her appearance normally, at least when she is in the outside world - but I don't see her there, I only ever see her here.

Deep in her own mind.

Then it catches the light, something small and silver only a few inches long, I recognize it easily. A razor blade. My blood runs cold. Is she? Could she really?

I can't peel my eyes away; I watch as she picks up another photo holding it to her face rubbing the flat side of the blade between her forefinger and thumb. My breath catches as she puts the photo down. Should I do something? What could I even do? I get lost in my own thoughts momentarily taking my eyes away from the camera screen. I count the windows, one, two, three, forth one in on the first floor, window wide open. I rack my brain to think of the street the building is on, Sullivan St 224 just down from the Law School.

Shit.

It’s been, how long? I look back at her window, forgetting the camera in my hand and getting frustrated that I can't see what's going on. I remember a second later and bring the plastic to my face, I can see her again. She's looking at the blade almost lovingly. Like it’s a long-lost favorite ring or childhood toy.

I shouldn’t be watching. Of all the things I have seen this is by far the most intimate. Not the sex or the AID’s patients at the clinic desperate for AZT meds, not people dying on battle fields gasping their last breaths- but this. A woman, a woman who has no idea I am watching as she contemplates taking her own life.

But then she stops, a still calmness comes over both of us, even my heart rate slows to match her movements. She takes the blade and lines it up with her inner elbow. Press it in and drag it down.

Blood blooms out in its wake, the cut must be deep, it’s already running down her arm and dripping off her fingers.

Fuck.

My instincts kick in and I lunge for the phone. Lisa wanted me to get a fancy cordless one by the kitchen, but I liked my old one with its long trailing cable. Good job I didn’t change it I think to myself as I wrap my fingers round the cold receiver.

9-1-1 I dial in and wait for the tone to click, it takes ages, or what feels like ages. I look back to the window. She’s laying down now her pale skin in stark contrast to the growing red blossom surrounding her.

Finally the operator picks up.

“Nine, one, one what's your emergency?” The voice is almost bored by its own question.