In the Shadows
By: Dagger Neismith
Personification. I am an unknown person. I am that figure that stands in the shadows of dark, murky alleys. I hide from conversations. I hide from other people. I keep to myself. I keep my secrets to myself and do not dare tell a soul. I keep my hidden talents exactly that—hidden from others. I do not let others know what I am thinking or feeling. Emotions–gone. Caring–gone. I step to the outside of groups on purpose. I am my own friend—my own person. No one knows anything about me or my past. That is exactly how I like it. Exactly how I tend to keep it. What am I?
Knots Bliese, my closest friend, knows nothing about my life. She knows only what I have told her–zilch, nil, zero. Picks Hewitt, also a close friend, knows nothing about my life. The only thing they know about me is my name, age, and birth date. Those are the only facts they need to concern themselves with. I know every minute detail about their past. I know about Knots' mother, who drank more than her fair share and brought men home every night, sometimes several at a time, and how she, at the young age of seven, heard every word, every sound, every peep that came from the other side of the thin plastered wall. I know how she was contemplating her own death only months before she arrived in Queens, and how her younger brother had walked in, ruining her ill-devised plan. I know about Picks and how he ran away from his father and his father's business. However much I disagree with what he did, I do not tell him. Picks would most likely be head of the company now, granted that it has not fallen through. I do not once bring this to his attention though. I know about how he had been taught the art of picking locks and had become very well at doing so (it helped him greatly when he moved to Queens). I know because I listen well. I am happy they are so open with me; however, I will never be open with them. Never.
I look over at the slender figure to my right. She is saying something, not really caring if I am listening or not. She only wants someone to listen. I could drift off to a restless sleep right now and she would not know the difference because I am still here next to her. She is going on about Dylan and Caesar, contemplating on whether telling the latter that Dylan had dropped by. These are her only worries.
I say nothing when she pauses. I only watch her bring her thin hand up to brush some of her hair away from her face. When her eyes look over at me, I nod to show that I understand. She does not know, or care, if I do understand or not. She smiles though, happy that I at least said I did, and puts her hand around my arm. I look away from her, down to my left hand where my dagger is held. The dagger I had stolen from my father before I left home.
My father. Now, there is a subject that I attempt to avoid at all costs. The bastard was a terrible father and a terrible husband. I hate him with a passion, and I can honestly say, with no regret, that I hope he rots in hell. I suppose I am mad at myself as well. Mad that I believed he was a good man—a hero in my young, naive eyes. I thought he could do anything. I suppose I was not completely wrong there. He can do anything, and he showed me that. What other man could kill his wife in cold blood and then resume eating dinner while his son looked on with horror?
"Dagger?"
I look over at Knots when she speaks. "Yeah?"
"Are you all right?"
"Just thinking," I answer, running a hand through my hair. I rub the back of my neck as I stand up. "I'm going to go for a walk."
She nods as she stands as well. "I'll talk to you later." A smile comes to her face before she hugs me. I am not sure why, but she always feels the need to hug me before we part. It is not that I mind exactly, I just find it odd. She hugs everyone before she parts with them it seems like–Caesar, Dylan, and I am positive she did with Picks when they were still on talking terms. I suppose it can be nice.
I leave her standing in the alley, where I am sure she will return to the lodging house soon. I walk quietly along the sidewalks of Queens, my hands stuffed in my pockets. It is a nightly thing that I do; I am not quite sure why I do it, I just do. Perhaps part of me does not want to return to the lodging house, go up to the bunkroom full of strangers, and then fall into a restless sleep. I consider them strangers because I know nothing about them. I admit that it is my fault though, because I have not given them a chance or have talked to them in hopes that I would in fact get to know them. I do not need that. I am perfectly content on just knowing their name and nothing else. I doubt they would want me to know much more anyway.
Knots keeps me updated on the things going on inside the house. She tells me the relationships that are happening and how she feels about them. She lets me know who the new lodgers are, and she even reminds me who I should stay away from, who has a bad personality. I appreciate it, I suppose. I could do without the updates, but I enjoy the times that she sits and talks with me. It might be hard to believe, but I do.
Sometimes, I find my inner self breaking, begging my mouth to open and blurt out everything about my past. Begging me to let it out. Begging me to tell her. However, it does not happen, it never does. I keep it inside, away from her ears.
I want to tell her about my father. I want to tell her about that night, four years ago, when my mother was shot for asking him where he had been, and how after he shot her and watched her lifeless body fall to the floor, he sat down at the table and began to eat his dinner. I still remember what he was eating that night – my mother's favorite dish of beef stroganoff and potato salad. I want to tell her about how I, at fifteen, grabbed my father's dagger from the drawer and jabbed it in his leg, turning it counterclockwise four times. I want to tell her how I calmly, but quickly, washed the blood from the blade, stuck it in my pocket, grabbed a bag of things I would need, and left the apartment, ignoring his screams of agony. I want to let her know that it is that one night that haunts my dreams, even now. I do not tell her though.
It is amazing how much thinking one can do when they are alone, walking aimlessly around a city. Whether a person wants to or not, thoughts enter their mind in a matter of seconds. Because of this, I end up walking all night. I return in the morning, ready to start another day, going through the motions of making money.
Knots usually likes to sell with me. I am not sure why. I never contribute to the conversation; I only listen to what she has to say. Maybe that is why she enjoys it. It is not that I mind, I just do not see why. I suppose there is nothing I can do about it. It would hurt her feelings if I told her to leave.
She speaks of Caesar a lot during the day. She also tells me about Gervaise and having to watch her child while she goes out. She thinks that I can care, and I guess I do. Sometimes I really do not care though. I pretend that I do.
"Caesar is doing so much better lately."
I turn my head towards her as I sell another paper. I nod to show that I heard her. "That's good." I catch her smile before turning my head back to the street in front of me. The dingy, dirty street. I have come to accept this. There is nothing I can do about the street being dirty. It is littered with trash, dirt, unwanted objects that people leave out. The occasional smell is not any better. The poor who live on the streets cause such smells. Their sweat and blood mix with the air of Queens. It is not a pleasant aroma, especially when you add the smell of sewer rats. One can only catch the true smell when sitting in the far end of a deserted alley, as I have done. I know the smell.
Then we pass the fish markets, and that smell is enough to make you want to leave New York all together. However, it is not as bad as the markets near the ocean. I had been to Long Island before arriving in Queens, and there, fish markets were much worse. I understand though. People need food to eat.
Food. Honestly, I cannot remember the last time I actually had something to eat, besides the few slices of bread here and there, and the occasional piece of fruit. Taking the time to cook in the lodging house would require staying around more. That would lead to encounters of the others, whom I prefer to avoid. They will start asking me questions and wanting me to talk longer. It is not on my list of things to do before I die. Come to think of it, nothing is on my list of things to do before I die. Except for perhaps breathe. I suppose everyone does that before they die though. Some a lot more than others, unfortunately.
"Have you talked to anyone lately?"
It is a common question that she asks me often. She wants me to make friends in the house. I have no idea why it is so important to her. I shrug my shoulders, shifting the papers under my arm. "Not exactly."
"Dagger, you should be more friendly."
I do not need any friends. I am not exactly sure she realizes that. It amuses her though if I have friends. I will humor her. "I know. I will be."
"You could come with Caesar and I sometime, you know."
Going with her and Caesar. Yes, that is exactly what I wish to do. Join in their day. I wonder why couples always ask people to join them. They must know that people do not want to be the third wheel while they hold hands and say sickly romantic things to each other. I, for one, do not want to hear him tell her how much he loves her, no matter how much fun it might seem. I shake my head, declining the offer. "No, thanks."
She nods her head, accepting my answer. "I promised Caesar that I would bring lunch to him."
"All right," I tell her, glancing over at her face. "You should."
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah. I think I can handle selling the rest on my own." I did not mean for it to come out as sarcastic as it did.
She smiles anyway though, as if she just ignored the sarcasm. I receive another hug from her, along with a 'good bye, see you later.' I watch her leave, running a hand through my hair. Then I begin to wonder briefly, what Caesar has that I do not.
Personification. I am an unknown person. I am that figure that stands in the shadows of dark, murky alleys. I hide from conversations. I hide from other people. I keep to myself. I keep my secrets to myself and do not dare tell a soul. I keep my hidden talents exactly that—hidden from others. I do not let others know what I am thinking or feeling. Emotions–gone. Caring–gone. I step to the outside of groups on purpose. I am my own friend—my own person. No one knows anything about me or my past. That is exactly how I like it. Exactly how I tend to keep it. What am I?
Knots Bliese, my closest friend, knows nothing about my life. She knows only what I have told her–zilch, nil, zero. Picks Hewitt, also a close friend, knows nothing about my life. The only thing they know about me is my name, age, and birth date. Those are the only facts they need to concern themselves with. I know every minute detail about their past. I know about Knots' mother, who drank more than her fair share and brought men home every night, sometimes several at a time, and how she, at the young age of seven, heard every word, every sound, every peep that came from the other side of the thin plastered wall. I know how she was contemplating her own death only months before she arrived in Queens, and how her younger brother had walked in, ruining her ill-devised plan. I know about Picks and how he ran away from his father and his father's business. However much I disagree with what he did, I do not tell him. Picks would most likely be head of the company now, granted that it has not fallen through. I do not once bring this to his attention though. I know about how he had been taught the art of picking locks and had become very well at doing so (it helped him greatly when he moved to Queens). I know because I listen well. I am happy they are so open with me; however, I will never be open with them. Never.
I look over at the slender figure to my right. She is saying something, not really caring if I am listening or not. She only wants someone to listen. I could drift off to a restless sleep right now and she would not know the difference because I am still here next to her. She is going on about Dylan and Caesar, contemplating on whether telling the latter that Dylan had dropped by. These are her only worries.
I say nothing when she pauses. I only watch her bring her thin hand up to brush some of her hair away from her face. When her eyes look over at me, I nod to show that I understand. She does not know, or care, if I do understand or not. She smiles though, happy that I at least said I did, and puts her hand around my arm. I look away from her, down to my left hand where my dagger is held. The dagger I had stolen from my father before I left home.
My father. Now, there is a subject that I attempt to avoid at all costs. The bastard was a terrible father and a terrible husband. I hate him with a passion, and I can honestly say, with no regret, that I hope he rots in hell. I suppose I am mad at myself as well. Mad that I believed he was a good man—a hero in my young, naive eyes. I thought he could do anything. I suppose I was not completely wrong there. He can do anything, and he showed me that. What other man could kill his wife in cold blood and then resume eating dinner while his son looked on with horror?
"Dagger?"
I look over at Knots when she speaks. "Yeah?"
"Are you all right?"
"Just thinking," I answer, running a hand through my hair. I rub the back of my neck as I stand up. "I'm going to go for a walk."
She nods as she stands as well. "I'll talk to you later." A smile comes to her face before she hugs me. I am not sure why, but she always feels the need to hug me before we part. It is not that I mind exactly, I just find it odd. She hugs everyone before she parts with them it seems like–Caesar, Dylan, and I am positive she did with Picks when they were still on talking terms. I suppose it can be nice.
I leave her standing in the alley, where I am sure she will return to the lodging house soon. I walk quietly along the sidewalks of Queens, my hands stuffed in my pockets. It is a nightly thing that I do; I am not quite sure why I do it, I just do. Perhaps part of me does not want to return to the lodging house, go up to the bunkroom full of strangers, and then fall into a restless sleep. I consider them strangers because I know nothing about them. I admit that it is my fault though, because I have not given them a chance or have talked to them in hopes that I would in fact get to know them. I do not need that. I am perfectly content on just knowing their name and nothing else. I doubt they would want me to know much more anyway.
Knots keeps me updated on the things going on inside the house. She tells me the relationships that are happening and how she feels about them. She lets me know who the new lodgers are, and she even reminds me who I should stay away from, who has a bad personality. I appreciate it, I suppose. I could do without the updates, but I enjoy the times that she sits and talks with me. It might be hard to believe, but I do.
Sometimes, I find my inner self breaking, begging my mouth to open and blurt out everything about my past. Begging me to let it out. Begging me to tell her. However, it does not happen, it never does. I keep it inside, away from her ears.
I want to tell her about my father. I want to tell her about that night, four years ago, when my mother was shot for asking him where he had been, and how after he shot her and watched her lifeless body fall to the floor, he sat down at the table and began to eat his dinner. I still remember what he was eating that night – my mother's favorite dish of beef stroganoff and potato salad. I want to tell her about how I, at fifteen, grabbed my father's dagger from the drawer and jabbed it in his leg, turning it counterclockwise four times. I want to tell her how I calmly, but quickly, washed the blood from the blade, stuck it in my pocket, grabbed a bag of things I would need, and left the apartment, ignoring his screams of agony. I want to let her know that it is that one night that haunts my dreams, even now. I do not tell her though.
It is amazing how much thinking one can do when they are alone, walking aimlessly around a city. Whether a person wants to or not, thoughts enter their mind in a matter of seconds. Because of this, I end up walking all night. I return in the morning, ready to start another day, going through the motions of making money.
Knots usually likes to sell with me. I am not sure why. I never contribute to the conversation; I only listen to what she has to say. Maybe that is why she enjoys it. It is not that I mind, I just do not see why. I suppose there is nothing I can do about it. It would hurt her feelings if I told her to leave.
She speaks of Caesar a lot during the day. She also tells me about Gervaise and having to watch her child while she goes out. She thinks that I can care, and I guess I do. Sometimes I really do not care though. I pretend that I do.
"Caesar is doing so much better lately."
I turn my head towards her as I sell another paper. I nod to show that I heard her. "That's good." I catch her smile before turning my head back to the street in front of me. The dingy, dirty street. I have come to accept this. There is nothing I can do about the street being dirty. It is littered with trash, dirt, unwanted objects that people leave out. The occasional smell is not any better. The poor who live on the streets cause such smells. Their sweat and blood mix with the air of Queens. It is not a pleasant aroma, especially when you add the smell of sewer rats. One can only catch the true smell when sitting in the far end of a deserted alley, as I have done. I know the smell.
Then we pass the fish markets, and that smell is enough to make you want to leave New York all together. However, it is not as bad as the markets near the ocean. I had been to Long Island before arriving in Queens, and there, fish markets were much worse. I understand though. People need food to eat.
Food. Honestly, I cannot remember the last time I actually had something to eat, besides the few slices of bread here and there, and the occasional piece of fruit. Taking the time to cook in the lodging house would require staying around more. That would lead to encounters of the others, whom I prefer to avoid. They will start asking me questions and wanting me to talk longer. It is not on my list of things to do before I die. Come to think of it, nothing is on my list of things to do before I die. Except for perhaps breathe. I suppose everyone does that before they die though. Some a lot more than others, unfortunately.
"Have you talked to anyone lately?"
It is a common question that she asks me often. She wants me to make friends in the house. I have no idea why it is so important to her. I shrug my shoulders, shifting the papers under my arm. "Not exactly."
"Dagger, you should be more friendly."
I do not need any friends. I am not exactly sure she realizes that. It amuses her though if I have friends. I will humor her. "I know. I will be."
"You could come with Caesar and I sometime, you know."
Going with her and Caesar. Yes, that is exactly what I wish to do. Join in their day. I wonder why couples always ask people to join them. They must know that people do not want to be the third wheel while they hold hands and say sickly romantic things to each other. I, for one, do not want to hear him tell her how much he loves her, no matter how much fun it might seem. I shake my head, declining the offer. "No, thanks."
She nods her head, accepting my answer. "I promised Caesar that I would bring lunch to him."
"All right," I tell her, glancing over at her face. "You should."
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah. I think I can handle selling the rest on my own." I did not mean for it to come out as sarcastic as it did.
She smiles anyway though, as if she just ignored the sarcasm. I receive another hug from her, along with a 'good bye, see you later.' I watch her leave, running a hand through my hair. Then I begin to wonder briefly, what Caesar has that I do not.