Something I wrote for English coursework years ago.
My life's quite ordinary. I'm not important, smart, powerful, or special in any way; but there's something that makes me feel special. Someone's watching me.
The first time I remember feeling like this was two years ago, when I was seven. My mum had a rare day off work, so we made the most of it and headed for a picnic in the park. Well, they call it a park. We live in London, and the way I see it, they label any slip of green a 'park'. On the other hand, this one wasn't so bad, and I ran gleefully ahead of my mother, swinging the basket on my arm, calling to one of my friends.
Suddenly, I lost my footing on a loose stone, and found myself being slammed forward into a towering oak tree, my basket flying off my arm and being upended, as I disappeared from view in the shadows. I was just recovering from the fall, which left me slightly winded, when a movement from behind the tree caught my attention. Cautiously, I edged around and, to my intense surprise, there was my picnic basket, hanging on a low branch, all the food neatly inside. I knew I dropped it behind me as I fell, a good five metres away from the old oak.
My suspicion mounted, but with a quick glance left, then right, I had to come to the conclusion my Good Samaritan was long gone. With some force, realisation hit me, and I craned my neck upwards, searching the dark and shady branches above my head.
I could see the silhouette of a person, near the top, so I called out to them. They either ignored me or couldn't hear; being seven and rather naïve, I assumed it was the latter, so I began climbing, the better to thank them. However, I had ascended no further than the first branch before there was a dull thud, and the treetop was empty.
I peered round the large trunk, and though my vision was mostly obscured, I was able to make out a man running into the alley across the street.
I have imagined the face of that man many times, even though all I saw was his retreating back, covered in a long dark coat, at the height of summer. I knew he had black hair, which put an end to my favourite theory. I thought he might've been my dad.
You see, my dad died when I was a baby. Later I related the incident to my mum; she laughed and suggested he was a ghost. Ghosts don't get hot, and they don't get hurt when jumping from tall trees. This was the reasoning of my seven-year-old mind.
Once when my mum was out, I snuck into her bedroom, and went through the drawers. I found what I wanted eventually; a picture of my dad. I only knew it was him because he was with mum. Mum doesn't like to talk about him. All I felt was immediate disappointment; my dad had ginger hair, and didn't look like he'd ever fit into that broad-shouldered greatcoat.
My mate Mickey said he could be a zombie. Apparently he's got a new computer game that has zombies who change their appearances when they come back to life. I pushed him off the swing and told him not to be so stupid. He didn't listen. Boys never do.
About a year after I first saw the stranger, I went to the park again with Mickey and his Gran. She said I was seeing things when I told her, for want of something better to say. I'm never sure whether I like her or not, but it's funny to watch her slap Mickey!
We were playing football this time, which I don't really care for, but it keeps the rest of the kids happy. Some idiot kicked the ball right over the fence, so I went to fetch it.
I stooped over to pick it up, when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my own sixth sense kicked in; I was being watched.
I whirled around and stared at the gap between two apartment blocks. It was him all right. I grinned in his direction, deciding not to show my unease, but his head was already turned away. Without question, I knew his face was creased in a smile too. I didn't even complain next time the ball went over the fence. No-one else was special like me.
Right now, I still don't know who this stranger is. But I know I'll find out, one day. In the future.