Sarah Henderson

Three Sides to Every Story

The Voyeur

She sat up quietly. Waking up was always like crossing over into another world. It took ten minutes. She had to wait for only ten minutes, in between, where dreams and reality hadn’t quite separated yet. She counted her breath. Familiarity brought it back. She thought of her grandmother. She’d always said only crazy people had the same dream more than once. Even now, as she laughed at how ridiculous it was, even though she’d been gone for sixty years, she couldn’t help thinking her grandmother was right. Her dreams haunted her, maybe she was a little crazy. They weren’t real anyway. Just like a bad horror movie that sticks to your memory. “Good,” she thought, “distractions always make it easier, I can sort it out then.” She got up, switched on the lamp, and walked towards the hallway. Outside a dog started to bark. “Why are dogs are always barking at midnight?,” she asked the empty house, turning her head towards the window behind her. It was then she tripped. Her red shoe laying in the middle of the hall where she had left it last night, forgetting to put it away. The dog stopped barking as the white skin of her knee split open against the door frame. The small trickle of blood terrified her.

She sat there in the middle of the moonless night, wearing an old nightgown, holding her knee. Tears ran down her face. She wasn’t crying. There was no feeling in the cut. The emptiness, the stillness of the night was haunting. She could hear the wind passing through the trees, blowing through them like they would blow through wind chimes. The shadows danced on the floor, surrounding her. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore. His face was there, it was real. “Why are you still watching me?” He didn’t answer. In the park, surrounded by trees, they both stood. His brown eyes were piercing. Far off, just beyond the line of sight, she could see shapes in the blue sky. Bright as daylight, though the air around her was dark and heavy. She turned to his eyes, but couldn’t see them anymore. The shapes were moving, as they came closer she couldn’t see them any better. Barking outside, the dog drew her eyes to the window. His were staring back. Dreams should slip away. But they didn’t. Not anymore. Standing up, she felt as if weight was falling onto her body. She was too old to do this.

Slowly she walked to the sink, splashed water on her face, and stared into her own eyes. It was still surprising to see her own face. Her hair used to be brown. Dark, thick, and long. She thought of Snow White. “What if she had slept for sixty years? What kind of dreams would she have had?” It was a cliche she couldn’t let go of. Sleep. The worlds that existed when we didn’t. There was always a scientific explanation. Synapses, neurons, memory processing. She couldn’t believe in science; it was too tangible, too real. Life never felt that real. She couldn’t see the film reels, but they were always there. She thought about that day in the field. They had gone with a picnic basket. She couldn’t stop the smile from showing on her face, star crossed lovers on a picnic. It sounded just like a dime store romance novel. Her dress had been red. Red and covered in tiny white flowers. It clashed with his blue shirt, but the film played in black and white. Regret chased her. Pine trees surrounded them. He always hated pines, said they were common, useless. She had always laughed at him. Coming to terms with his idiosyncracies. Laughing only made him angry. Mud from the path smeared her new shoes. It had upset him more than it upset her. Loving him, even then, meant losing a little bit of herself.

He wanted the most secret place, the most beautiful. Second best was never good enough. They walked until she was out of breath. She had never been one for exercise. Finally he turned and smiled. The birds flew out of the trees, soaring around the small clearing. Pulling out the soft wool blanket, she sat down and smiled back at him. He reached down and grabbed her small wrist, pulling her up so she was standing next to him, staring into his brown eyes. She could see the birds reflecting back. Knowing he shouldn’t, knowing she shouldn’t, he leaned over to kiss her. Kissing was always a complicated thing. Movies made it look so easy. John Wayne would lean over, grab his leading woman, and pull her into a long embrace where no one’s nose bumped, no one’s teeth gnashed against the others. It wasn’t that way here. He hit her hard, her mouth ringing, she pulled back. She was relieved. Kissing him was like saying yes. They both laughed and he sat down, taking her alongside him. She wanted to kiss him. Instead, she turned to her basket. Offering him a sandwich, she set herself a million miles away. The rest of the day was uneventful. Uneventful and unforgettable.

Sighing, she stood up straight and assessed herself in the mirror one last time. Her eyes never changed. They were always the same deep green. Nothing to speak of, but always the same. Walking back to her bedroom, she realized she finally knew the meaning of “padding.” Alone, in the dark, it was still humiliating. Habit overtook her exhaustion. She reached over to brush her hair, forgetting it was already cut off. Another sigh escaped her lips. Pulling the white covers back, she slowly returned to her position in her bed. Mentally, she retraced her night. His eyes were still staring at her. Giving in and giving up, she rolled over, clasped her hands to her chest, and breathed deeply. As time passed, she felt herself rolling back. Back into the sleep she had just left. Sleeping alone was all she had ever known. She had never learned to stop hating it.

Waking up in the daylight was different. In the morning she could forget. Nightmares, dreams, memory, they faded away with the bright sun’s light. This time, as she pulled her blankets off of her weary body, she could feel each and every bone ache. Exhaustion had quickly become a familiar presence. She thought back. How had she gotten here? It seemed as the last day she had lived had been with him. Everything in between was gone. Last night had been washed away by new dreams. Now, it was all coming back. Looking out the window, she could make out where his eyes had been. She had seen them so often it was hard to know if they were really there. Solid ideas turned to mush in a blender. Time, dates, memories. None of them were distinct. He stood in the field again, looking at her. She was standing there, wearing the same red dress. She reached up for her hair, but it was gone. It was short and gray. The dog was barking again. She could see trees in the distance, the grass surrounding her. The wind blowing through the leaves whistled in her ears. But the dog was barking, her hand was still leaning against the window frame. She was wearing the nightgown. She wanted it to end.





The Picture

Four solid frames. He had four solid frames surrounding everything he knew. Behind him there was nothing. He had never turned his head to look, glued to the image ahead. He knew her face as if it were his own. Sometimes she could see him. The first time, years ago, had been right after. She had turned to the window to watch the rain stream down in trails. After a few minutes, she begun to trace the water with the tip of her fingernail. Going up the glass, following where the water had been, the nail barely touching. He had followed her fingers with his own. Tracing where it had gone. The moment he caught her, the moment they had touched, she jumped. His eyes caught her. She saw him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She had stared back for only a few seconds, shook her head and turned away. He knew she thought it was a dream, accidental imagination brought on by cold, dreary, rain. The weather novels are made of. He had waited from that moment on.

The next time he knew she couldn’t let the rain wash it away. It had been sunny. Warmth from the house poured into his window. Summer, the next year. He had barely slept for months, waiting for the next glimpse. The next time he would catch her. He was afraid she had forgotten. He would have given a hundred years just for five minutes. But he had to be fair. She had been laughing, a friend standing and waiting in the other room. Turning her head to walk into the room, he caught her eyes. She gasped. He knew she hadn’t forgotten. It wasn’t enough. “What’s wrong?” he heard from the other room. “Nothing, I just thought I saw a spider,” with that, she turned and walked out of the room, out of his life. It would be years before he would catch her again.

Her hair was getting longer. She had never cut it short. But it was much longer now. It was still the same deep brown, but it had changed somehow. He knew somewhere deep down she remembered. She wouldn’t forget that day. He knew she’d remember until she died. Unless she did. It was always at the back of his mind. What if she didn’t remember? She had wanted to forget so much. She might have accomplished it. He couldn’t wouldn’t let her. He remembered. He remembered the trees, the way he had made her walk for miles until he found the perfect place. He knew he was too difficult to love. Even then, before he became only a haunting image, it was too much. Sitting there, waiting, watching, he was crazy. The closer she got to the edge, the more he was falling off. It was desperation. Doing nothing but watching her. He prayed she wouldn’t forget. That she hadn’t already. She rolled over in the bed. His mind came back to her. Her eyes were open. They were looking at him. He was afraid of all the possibilities. But she was sleeping. She was only dreaming. He had to stay desperate.

She woke up often. Always, she would turn and look at him. Still sleeping, still dreaming, but she looked. It gave him hope. It only happened then, in the dead of night. She no longer looked out the window. The curtains were nearly always closed. She was busy, running in and out of the room, out of the house. He waited. His life hung on those few moments when she would look at him. He didn’t know what she knew, what she was thinking. But she hadn’t forgotten. Dreams wouldn’t let her forget. The dark was comforting to him now. Sunlight only reminded him that she was gone. Who wasn’t happy in the daylight? He could watch her at night. There were times when he didn’t want her to see him. She had walked in once. Tired, a little drunk, she had stumbled into the room. She had thrown her shoes across the floor. Grabbing her clothes, she ran into the bathroom. She was older then. She didn’t want to admit it, but her hair had a few strands of gray. She wasn’t old enough, not for that. He could hear the faucet, the water splashing in the tub. He was most afraid then. When she came back, her wet hair was soaking her nightgown. She hadn’t bothered to dry off. Tears were already flowing down her face. He wanted to give up. How could it go on like this, not knowing what hurt her, what made her cry. He could only count the number of tears that fell on the floor. Listen to the sobs she rarely let out. Her life was becoming a blur. He could only hold on to those few moments. The memory of that one day had to be enough. It was fading.

But it didn’t. She grew older. Her hair grew gray. She slept less. She spent more time watching the window. He didn’t understand her anymore. Guessing was impossible. He had long ago accepted he wouldn’t escape. As long as she didn’t forget, he could stay. He would die knowing she hadn’t forgotten. It was enough. As her hair turned gray, she began to cut it off. She spent more time alone. Her dreams began to haunt her. Talking to herself she would mutter his name. He began to hope. He didn’t want to. It had been easier to believe it was over. Giving up and giving in was always easier. Hoping took energy he didn’t have anymore. The crazier she became, the more she fell off, the closer he got to the edge. But he went on.

And then, it happened. She had been staring longer lately. The past few years he could hardly recognize her. It was only her eyes that were the same. The same piercing green. When she fell, he was terrified. He didn’t want her to leave, not yet. It didn’t happen. She went back to sleep. He never thought it would happen then. He could almost feel the heat from the sun. Eyes blurred, angry and scared. She stood at the window, her hand against the frame. He wanted it to end. She looked into his eyes. She had never seen him like this. It was clear, the two eyes recognized his own. There was no distraction, no possibility she was dreaming. And so she screamed. Angry, bitter, horrendous screams. She stared and yelled. The violence of her voice shook the walls, shook the four frames he had lived his life through. And then, she spoke. “Leave, just leave. I don’t want you. I never have.” Walking out into the hall, he couldn’t see her for a moment. Swinging open the door, she turned back to him. She picked up the red shoe, still lying on the hallway floor. Turning back, he could see the rage in her eyes. The fury of years of unrequited life. He knew it was the end. “I hate you,” screaming one last time, with strength she was too old to have any more, she threw the shoe. He saw her eyes even through the red flying towards him. All he could hear was the glass breaking all around him. He closed his eyes with relief. It was the end. It was over.











The House

The air blowing over his skin woke him up. It was cold in the room, wind blowing through the broken window. The unfamiliarity of lying on the floor made him open his eyes. He wasn’t alone. She was barely moving, barely breathing, but she was awake, staring at his face. Her hands were touching his. He realized they were lying on shards of glass. “Why did you stay?” He asked, terrified and confused, “All this time, why did you stay?” “How could I leave?” He turned to sit up. She held on. They both stood up. He didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to do. “It’s ok,” she said, not afraid for the first time. She knew she wasn’t crazy anymore. He couldn’t tell if he was. “I don’t know where I am.” He turned and looked out the window, the house stood in a field, surrounded by trees. It was eerily familiar. There was a single red shoe lying on top of a soft wool blanket. He turned back to her. His arm was resting on her back. The blue of his shirt clashed with the red and white of her dress. The cool wind was still blowing from the open window. “Have you ever known?” she replied “Did it ever matter?” He looked at her. Her green eyes. His brown eyes. “No.” Knowing he shouldn’t, knowing she shouldn’t. He leaned over and kissed her.