I’m really sorry St. Clair, I’m really really sorry. I wish I could tell you about what happened, or show you this blog, but I wasn’t allowed to. The Judge is always watching. I can see The Prosecutor following other people around, digging up more secrets, dragging more dark things into the light. It smiles at me every time I pass by.

Please, stay in the dark. The light is bright, the light is blinding. The light brings only pain. Don’t let Them find you. I’d warn you properly if I could, really, I would.

But I couldn’t. I was only allowed to write, not tell.

Now I’m not allowed to write. He wants my computer.

Now I’m only allowed to hope that you find this, that you read this.

I’m sorry.

10

St. Clair was a little too loud.

St. Clair was a little too loud, and a few too many people laughed.

St. Clair was a little too loud, and a few too many people laughed, and the boss finally realized that someone was talking about him behind his back.

I wasn’t even involved; I’d just been sitting there. But as soon as the laughter subsided, he came over and asked what was so funny. Nobody said anything.

His expression was still flat, still emotionless, but he was starting to sweat. He asked again, louder. And nobody said anything. He finally dispensed with all pretenses, and demanded to know who’d started making fun of him. 

Nobody looked at St. Clair. She said she didn’t know, becoming the picture of innocence. I felt the eyes starting to burn into the back of my head. 

He yelled for about three minutes straight. The office was deathly quiet again. Quiet like the subway. Everyone was watching again, like the subway. I closed my eyes but I kept seeing that Eye, the dog, the jury. The lights behind my eyelids became those horrid points of light. My head began to throb. My chest started seizing up the more I thought about it,  I started breathing in and out faster and faster and faster-

And I guess that’s why he heard me. That’s why he asked me who’d started talking. I wasn’t really present, mentally; I was still freaking out. The small part of my brain that was still there was relieved, and I thought for a moment that I’d be unable to do as ordered.

But the bite on my chest flared up. It felt like something was holding my ribcage in place, forcing the air out of my lungs, forcing the truth out of my mouth. 

And all the eyes filled with anger and disgust again, just like the subway, when I said St. Clair’s name. 

There was this sick look of something vaguely resembling triumph when he heard the name. He turned on her, and began calmly berating her in that even, psychotic tone. I was allowed to resume panicking as he leveled judgement at the friend who’d stood by me for three years. I caught her stare as I began to seize up again.

Now, all the eyes I see are green and full of hurt and revulsion every time they look at me.

Those eyes hurt me almost as much as the Other one.

Almost.

9

He’s taken my watch. 

He’s taken my phone.

I keep working later hours.

I keep doing more and more because he won’t ever stop asking.

I was supposed to go over to a friend’s last night. We hadn’t seen each other for years. It had been planned for a while.

But he told me that someone needed to go over to his house and groom his cat while he closed a business deal. Right away.

So I spent the night grooming his cat.

When he got home, I thought it was over. I thought I could finally leave.

But the house needed to be cleaned. So I cleaned it.

The dresser needed to be moved down the stairs. 

So I pulled something in my back carrying it.

I could see the eyes in every painting, every picture, watching and looking and judging.

Always judging. 

8

He told me that he wanted my notebook.

I’d saved up a lot of money for this notebook. It’s durable, it’s leather-bound, it has all of my reminders and memos and thoughts and ideas in it.

And he told me he wanted it.

So I gave it to him.

I just handed it over. Simple as that. No struggle. No refusal. I couldn’t do anything.

St. Clair asked if anything was wrong with me, and I almost cried because I was so relieved to tell someone, to finally let someone know.

But I couldn’t.

I have to do everything and anything except tell someone what’s going on.

So I said nothing.

She’s disgusted by me now.

I’m sorry St. Clair.

I’m so sorry.