Chapter 19: Eyes In The Diner

Elisabeth crept toward the apartment door, her body trained to move in silence. Her hand trembled slightly as her gnarled finger slid the peephole cover aside. Through the dark circle of glass, the blurred outline of her neighbor came into focus.

Her breath caught. Him. What the hell did he want now?

She froze, holding herself against the wood as if she could disappear into it. Not a sound. Not a breath.

The buzzer broke the silence—BZZZZ BZZZZZZ. Elisabeth shut her eyes. Go the fuck away, egghead…

Another long buzz. Louder. More insistent. Then came the scratching—soft, deliberate, like claws dragging across her nerves.

"Sue?" His voice was muffled but far too close. "It's Oliver…"

Her jaw tightened. Oliver. Of course.

"I just saw you on TV… holy molly, makes me want to join your class! Do you give private lessons?"

She stayed still, muscles taut, finger pressing against the cold metal of the peephole.

A pause. His voice again, too casual.

"What about a drink at my place tonight?"

Elisabeth's throat burned. She wanted to scream at him through the door and to drive him back into the hole he came from. But she didn't move.

"I can see you standing behind there… don't be shy, gorgeous! I'm into sports too, I can show you my chess trophies!"

He chuckled at his own joke. The sound curdled in her stomach.

The silence stretched until he finally relented.

"Alright, no problem, take your time… But it's a date!"

She heard his heavy steps recede down the hall, followed by a tuneless hum: don't you know, pump it up…

Only then did she let her crooked finger slip from the cover. The metal snapped shut with a sharp shlack.

---

Steam hissed as the shower pummeled her back. Elisabeth leaned against the tiled wall, head bowed, the hot water blurring her vision. The sting of it should have woken her, but her mind was elsewhere—adrift, searching for balance she hadn't felt in months.

The water traced the scarred ridges of her finger, the one she could never wash clean. She let it hang against her side, useless and accusing, while the other hand pressed into the wall for strength.

She needed control. She needed to move.

Wrapped in her coat, collar raised, gloves snug around her hands, Elisabeth stood once more at the apartment door. She looked through the peephole. Empty. The corridor was also empty and she slipped outside.

The city swallowed her quickly. She walked fast, head down, the rhythm of her steps jagged and uneven. On the cleaner streets, she passed hurried strangers who didn't notice her at all. On the harsher blocks, the air seemed different, more like thicker and hostile. Every glance lingered too long as every shadow leaned toward her.

Her jittery gait quickened as she reached the deposit.

Inside, the corridor was sterile and humming with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. She swiped her card. A locker door clicked open with a soft beep.

She reached in, pulled out the package, and slid it into her bag.

And then—A noise.

Barely there, like a whisper behind her.

Elisabeth turned, heart hammering, scanning the lobby. Empty. Just the hum of the lights and her own breath, ragged in her ears.

She lingered a beat too long before forcing herself back into motion, clutching the bag like a lifeline.

She walked quickly, her boots clicking against the uneven pavement. The street was quieter than most, a place where shopfronts leaned tiredly against one another and windows hid more shadows than light. She felt the air press close around her, as if the street itself were watching.

That feeling again like someone behind her?

She slowed her pace, turned her head. Nothing. Just the hunched silhouette of a lamppost and the distant echo of traffic. Still, her skin prickled with the certainty of unseen eyes.

Her heartbeat quickened. She pushed forward, forcing herself not to glance back again. The familiar streets seemed strange and distorted. Corners stretched longer than they should. Every passerby looked hurried, suspicious and blurred.

By the time she saw the diner's red neon sign, buzzing faintly like a nervous insect, she was relieved. Light, people, noise, a sanctuary and she slipped inside.

The air was warmer, thick with grease and coffee. Elisabeth slid into a booth by the window, then shifted abruptly to another seat, closer to the wall, where she could watch the door. Her hands trembled as she tugged off her coat. She started to peel off one glove but stopped, fingers freezing mid-motion, before pulling it back tight. The right glove. Always the right glove.

"What can I get you?"

Elisabeth jumped. The waitress who was blonde, and had a sharp smile, lipstick too red for daylight, stared down at her with a notepad poised. Her nametag read ALLISON.

"Uh… a mocha latte," Elisabeth muttered, the words tumbling out in no order.

Allison scribbled and drifted away. Elisabeth exhaled, steadying her hands, fussing with the glove again, as though its seams could keep her unraveling together.

"It's long, isn't it?"

The voice came from the next booth. A man — sweating under a gray coat, his face marked by a strawberry birthmark that seemed disturbingly familiar — was watching her. His eyes held her like pins.

"Excuse me?"

"Seven days," he said.

The words landed like a code she was supposed to understand. Elisabeth stared, expression blank, but inside her thoughts tumbled: Seven days until what? Seven days since what?

"I know what these weeks feel like," he added, leaning forward. His breath smelled of stale coffee.

Before she could reply, Allison reappeared. "Whipped cream?"

Elisabeth blinked at the sudden intrusion and nodded. The hiss of the can was loud in her ears: Pzzzzzzzzzt. She watched the froth collapse into the coffee like something rotting before her eyes.

She stirred it slowly, as if the motion could soothe her, though her eyes kept flicking back to the man. His wallet fell to the floor with a slap of leather, and when he bent to retrieve it, she saw it: the scar, pale pink and thick, rising from the base of his neck. Just like hers. Her stomach turned and then their eyes locked.

"Did you follow me here?" she whispered.

He smiled faintly. "I was just curious. And I wouldn't mind a little company. Each time, it gets a little lonelier, doesn't it?"

Her mouth went dry. She looked away, pretended to sip. I'm fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

But the man's voice burrowed into her. "It gets harder each time to remember you still deserve to exist… that you're still worth something."

The cream in her cup had curdled, sinking into a yellowish sludge.

She fumbled for her bag, dropped a ten on the table, and stood. She had to leave, before the walls closed in.

"Has she started yet?"

Elisabeth froze, her hand on the door. Slowly, she turned.

The man's gaze pinned her again, heavy and knowing. "Eating away at you?"

The diner felt silent, emptied of everyone else. Just the two of them, locked in some terrible understanding.

Then she turned and bolted.