One night, I walked home from Irin's place after dinner. I saw that bike parked across from the house, but there was no rider. I strolled down the middle of the street and tried to look for him, but I couldn't find him anywhere. The first thought that came into my head was to kick that fucking bike over, but I didn't have enough strength to do that. I might be the one who fell to the ground instead. I decided to take a picture of it and its license plate, but I had to walk around and get close enough because it was too dark. But suddenly, the rider came back from my front porch.
What the—
He paused as I paused. We looked at each other, but we were far enough apart for me to make a run for it.
He was close to my house, and I was close to his bike. And he was still wearing the helmet.
He was stunned—I could fucking tell—but not as much as I was. I watched and waited for him to make his move, so I didn't know what I should do: run, kick his bike, or ride it away. I quickly glanced at the key and turned to him.
Shit. He stepped toward the street.
But the key was there. It was the wrong move, my friend, to leave the key in. As he took another step, I took a step toward his beloved bike—exorbitant. I might not know about the motorcycle universe, but I do know that it must have cost him a pile of money.
"What do you say, huh?" I said lightly, but I didn't think he could hear me, though he knew what I was trying to do. He stepped forward with his right foot, and I stepped closer to his bike. Then he stopped.
"Yeah, right," I whispered.
I couldn't just take the key out that instant; it would take a second. I had to find the perfect time. Fuck, there's no perfect time. Just fucking do it.
I ran to the bike, grabbed the key, pushed it in, twisted it, and pulled it out before he could get to me. Then I ran to the side of my yard. He was about to catch me, so I quickly threw the key into the woods. While his head followed the direction of the key, I ran the fuck back to my porch and entered the digits.
He turned to me, said nothing, as usual, because he was a coward who was scared to confront me face-to-face. But no—not me. I was a coward, and I admitted it. I was scared as fuck. He stood still like a mannequin in front of my yard.
Click.
The door unlocked.
"I told you... it's my property," I shouted. I stepped inside, but my foot hit a box on the floor. I looked at him, and he was still there, not moving. He must have been fucking mad. Mad—mad. I grabbed the box, got inside, and locked the door.
I ran to my room and peeked out through the window. I saw him walking toward the side of the house, which was in front of my bedroom. He looked up with the helmet still on. That's creepy as hell. I waited to see what he was going to do next. I took out my phone and showed it to him through the window. I gestured to him: I pointed at my phone, pointed at him, and moved my four fingers toward myself and back out as I moved my lips slowly, giving him subtitles.
"I'll—call—the—police—if—you—don't—leave," I mouthed. He stood still. "FUCK—OFF." I mouthed clearly this time before closing the curtain.
A minute later, I heard the sound.
Vroommmm.
"What the hell?" I said aloud and quickly pushed the curtains aside to look.
That creepy stalker was riding his bike carelessly, passing my room slowly with one hand on the handlebars while looking up at me, showing me how proud he was that my plan had failed. Then he rode his fucking bike away.
Of course, he had a spare key.
After that night, he didn't come back, which relieved me a little, but not entirely. I sensed that he might be planning something, retreating so he could make a bigger move.
Thinking about that creep makes my head hurt.
While writing my school assignment—the big project for English class—I can't get him out of my mind. Then my eyes turn toward the deep-blue box. It was the package I found in front of my door that night when I confronted him. I thought it was just a standard package from the postman; maybe it was from my father.
But it wasn't.
So I take a look inside. It has been lying on the couch for a few days.
I open it.
"Hah—" I gasp as my eyes widen.
I pull out white lace with a neat rose pattern and a stripe running all the way down to the bottom. They're stockings.
"What—" I say, confused and astonished. I stretch them out, and they come as a pair. "Oh my God, they're beautiful," I say with a smile on my face. "Who are they from?"
Tytas?
I look at the deep-blue box. There's nothing on the outside, so I flip it over and shake it. Then a square piece of white paper falls onto the carpet. I pick it up and read the note written in red pen.
'A new pair for you, my baby doll.'
"Ha—what?" I draw my brows together, and then I realize. "Don't fucking tell me they're from that—creep." I quickly throw the stockings onto the bed.
That night, I saw him coming from my porch. He must have put the package down before I got there.
Then my pupils shrank. Instantly, thoughts that should never have appeared in my mind began to form. My favorite black flower-patterned stocking didn't disappear on its own. That creep must have stolen it from me.
That means—"He was in my room!" I say, freaking out.
My heart beats so fast. I feel a tingling beneath my skin and deep in my bones, followed by an electric shock beneath my bare feet. I quickly go to the window and look outside like a crazy, paranoid person.
Shit. I turn my head toward the white lace stockings and bite my bottom lip.
"Fuck, but they're so stunning..." I say quietly.
But I will never, ever wear them!
I replay Miss Quinn's suggestion to find an extra class, volunteer work, or extracurricular activities. To be honest, after that conversation, I haven't done anything about it yet. I don't have any clues or find anything interesting at the academy, outside it, or even in this town. I could do the garage thingy; that sounds interesting, but not for Harvard.
Actually, operating cars is the same as operating the body.
What the hell am I thinking?
If I can do some work at the hospital, it might help. That's a good choice.
"Kid," the cashier says while putting the snacks in the bag as I think about how to pursue that plan. Volunteering at a hospital isn't an easy option.
"Kid," she calls again, and I look at her.
"Be careful, all right?" she says, shifting her eyes toward several men outside the store. Some of them are looking right inside. "I saw them when you were walking in here," she says.
Then I turn to her, and she is about to put my can of strawberry soda inside the bag. "I'll take this one," I say with a smile.
"And you should stop coming out for snacks at night. It's not that safe for young girls," she says.
"What if I'm hungry, Miss?" I ask with a bit of teasing.
"Then you should come here in daylight and stockpile," she suggests with a serious face, giving me the bag full of snacks.
"Hehe, it seems too hard to live life as a young girl," I say, taking it from her hand.
"I know... Instead of being free and experiencing your life, you have to be cautious all the time," she says. "This goddamn town is full of the richest—not just in money..." She looks outside and turns her face toward me as I put the straw inside the can. "But the richest in crime too... Where the hell do they put their money? Into their cars, clothes..." She's mumbling her facts. "Their hair—"
"But not their brains, right?" I add.
"That's right—but some people have brains and ignore them," she states another fact, and I agree.
I smile at her. "Don't worry, I've never ignored my brain," I say as I'm about to leave. "And I run fast too."
"Good." She smiles.
While I'm walking past the group of men, I don't look at them, but I can hear their laughter and the sounds coming from their mouths and footsteps. I ignore them and try to walk calmly. Suddenly, I see a biker—the same fucking biker, stalker, creeper—I don't know anymore. He's right before my eyes. I can't turn back toward these disgusting men behind me, and I can't walk ahead toward my creeper.
Shit. What perfect timing.
"Hey, girl—" The one behind me is getting closer to my back.
My feet are frozen, but then my body moves forward, walking in the biker's direction by instinct, as if the mud beneath my feet has somehow released me.
"Don't try to ignore me, beautiful." The man behind me is getting more aggressive.
Then the helmeted guy walks in my direction and stops in front of me.
What is he doing?
I look at his helmet, which reflects my face. It's the first time we've been close, and we're so close that I can tell how tall I am compared to him. He's so tall, very tall, and his body is larger than those of the boys on the sports teams, more prominent than that of a normal grown man—like a soldier to me.
He says nothing and just stands there as my breath puffs against his chest. I turn my head to see the guys behind me; they are halting, looking at the mysterious man near me like my shadow. I turn to look at the man before me, and his chest is right in front of my eyes. I blink rapidly. I don't know what to feel right now. His existence stops those jerks' disgusting behavior without him opening his mouth or using any violence.
But at this moment, I feel like I'm in his palm, under his nose.
"Ha..." I accidentally gasp as his helmet moves down toward me. "C-Can you move?" I say lightly, hiding my eyes from him, but he doesn't step back or even seem to breathe. No fog or sound is coming from this guy. I look up again and stare through the black visor into the helmet.
I'm scared,
—but I feel fine.
He turns his head to look behind me again and backs off a little, giving me space to walk. I step forward slowly. I glance at him and give a quick glance at the group of men who are still watching me, probably watching us. I keep walking away, passing my creepy savior, who is standing there waiting for something. Once I'm pretty far away from the convenience store, I hear the bike coming my way; the lights hit the street before me, and the sound of the bike becomes clearer but not louder. I know it's him.
I watch him ride past me, but my eyes stop directly across the street in front of me. He's riding his bike slowly, keeping up with my pace without passing me.
What now?
I look at him as I walk ahead; he also rides along.
Is it my time? Am I going to be attacked this time? He might get even because I threw his bike key into the woods. While I'm confused inside my head, I'm also confused outside my body.
Why don't I run?
I turn to him again and stop walking.
And then he stops his bike.
I walk again, stepping one foot ahead.
He also moves forward.
What is he trying to do here?
I decide not to care and mind my own business; I drink my soda and ignore him. I walk nonstop and then stop abruptly to see his reaction.
And he stops his bike in no time.
"Hee," I quietly chuckle. I turn to look at him, and his visor is facing directly toward me. I try not to smile and turn around, walking ahead.
As I expected, he also rides his bike alongside me.
The distance between us is around seven meters, with an empty road and enough space for a cool breeze. There is no sound of us talking, only the sound of the light wind, his peaceful engine, my footsteps, and my drink moving through the straw—calm, which is not a feeling I expected from him or our interaction.
I really don't understand this part of myself. I feel my blood running smoothly whenever I'm in a terrible situation. Instead of running away, I run toward it. My brain knows I try not to ignore it, but my body ignores it. People used to say, 'The body knows more than anything.' Our bodies sense danger, what feels uncomfortable for us, what's good for us, and what poisons us; the body reacts on its own, and mine has always been that way. Perhaps my body is trying to tell me something.
Eventually, we arrive at my house. He stops his bike and looks at me through the black visor. I give him a quick look, but I am a bit hesitant to go inside my house. I don't know what he plans to do with me right now or in the near future. I walk through my yard along the path, and I turn around to look at him.
He is there, waiting.
It's like he has escorted me home, taken me back home—safely.
"Was it you?" I say softly. "The gift—the stockings."
He says nothing while looking at me, even though I can't see his eyes.
"I'm not going to wear them," I say. While I'm waiting for him to move, I reach the porch and am about to open the door.
"Shame—"
"Ha—" I gasp and turn my head toward him immediately.
The deepest voice I've ever heard.
"They must look beautiful on you," he says.