Always Watching

A sequel to "After Hours" - this is a warning for the curious and a death wish for everyone: they are always watching.

Almost every child has a stuffed animal they can call their own. Why is it an urge for children to own stuffed animals? Especially when a bear is one of the main creatures portrayed as a cuddly creature when really it’s a predator. Are we teaching are children to be unaware of the dangers around them? 

Sadly enough, most of you are oblivious to the true dangers your species faces. 

If you’re reading this right now I have three things to say to you: 

1. You’ve either read or you haven’t another story by kind old me called After Hours. I encourage you to read that one first if you want to put yourself in danger. Every word that I type, every letter - it all will come back to haunt you one day. 

2. I press you to drop whatever you’re reading this from. If it’s a phone - throw it in the toilet and flush. If it’s a book, make a campfire and burn it. Knowledge is danger, in this case. And sometimes - like now - knowledge can kill you. So put this down and find a better book to read, or better yet, follow my third side note below. 

3. Please, please, please drop this right now. I have prepared a life for you to live below; 

1. Go to the nearest coffee shop 

2.  Find a barista that you find attractive 

3. Talk to that barista 

4. Go on a date with the barista 

5. Get married to the barista 

6. Have kids with the barista 

7. Live with the barista 

8. Live an oblivious life away from me and my stories with the barista 

9. Die happily with the barista 

See, I have outlined an entire life for you. It’s simple, easy, and has a 16% success rate! (Are you seriously not going to accept that offer?) Moving on then … 

If you’re still reading this I’m going to assume that you don’t value your life. I really encourage you to turn away and find something else, something safer to read at this moment because what I’m about to write could destroy the entire world. 

Anyways, back to the stuffed animals I mentioned earlier. I, myself, never had a tiny toy I called my own. To be honest, I never quite had a childhood because I despise kids and I never was one for that very reason. So when I tell the story you are foolishly about to read, please know that none of it relates to me. At least, not the parts you’ll hear. 

But that’s beside the point. Today you won’t be learning about my childhood or anything about me besides the fact that I really like cheese ravioli and milk chocolate (keep this in consideration in case you decide to send me a gift - scratch that, you don’t know my address and I won’t be giving it to you. Who knows where my enemies could be lurking. I’m talking about you, Bobby Jo). 

And the real hero of this story is not me. Nor is it Bobby Jo. 

There really isn't’ a “hero”  in this story. 

Nope, only Quentin Stone. And Quentin is the only reason I agreed to type these dangerous words. So if this had to have a dedication page, I would dedicate it to Quentin. 

Quentin was a young boy, maybe thirteen years old. Oh, what a marvelous age. I remember when I was thirteen … wait, I told you I was never a kid. Oh, fiddlesticks, forget the entire last paragraph. I’m too lazy to delete it. And I think there’s someone watching me so they need to think I’m busy. 

Quentin wasn’t a terrible looking boy, according to several girls at his school who I interviewed a week after his … disappearance. 

You know what, this is way too dangerous. Sorry, Quentin, but I just don’t want to do this. Okay, fine. I’ll make a deal with you. If you turn around now and find something else to read, your life will be spared and you’ll live obliviousness. Or you can keep reading and endanger yourself and your entire family. The choice is yours. 

You see, not only was Quentin thirteen, but he was also special in ways I can’t really describe. But I’ll do my best. 

Sometimes, a child is born with supernatural abilities almost - much like myself. But these abilities are often diagnosed as diseases or issues with the child. Synthesia, high IQ, those kinds of things. These are all gifts that you disgusting filthy humans waste! How pathetic, how… Sorry. I got ahead of myself there. 

The point is that humans are sometimes given gifts that can help them survive in the modern, developing world. 

But there are some people who want to harvest these abilities for their own. Some people who need these children for projects. Some people who want to destroy these children so they can continue their advancement of world domination. 

The boy we speak of - Quentin - had the peculiar gift of synthesia. He saw his letters and numbers in colors, which might not have been a big deal … if it weren’t for an individual I am not allowed to name. This brings us back to the very first thing I wrote - the paragraph about stuffed animals. 

I assume that at one point in time, you had your own stuffed toy that you adored. 

And I assume that the very stuffed animal you are thinking of had eyes. Yes, I know, that sounds very weird and very suspicious but most - most - stuffed animals have eyes. And for good reason too. It makes them look cuter and more realistic - although why you want a stuffed bear of all things is beyond me - among other uses. The other uses I speak of? Well, let’s get back to the story. 

Quentin, as I mentioned previously, saw his letters and numbers in colors. Not physically, of course, but if you asked him what color “A” was, he would reply “light pink”. 

As you’ve probably already guessed, I’m eventually going to tie my two rants - Quentin and stuffed animals - together in the story. Well I will eventually, so you guessed correctly. You think you know me so well? You know nothing. 

Anyways, as we begin our story I’d like to introduce you to Quentin’s favorite stuffed animal - Joshua. 

Joshua was a raccoon, a small one, with blue fur and large green eyes. Quentin adored the stuffed thing but just like what happens when you grow up, Quentin soon began to wonder if it was, well, appropriate for a boy his age to have a stuffed toy. 

It was a Monday, a rather sad one in Quentin’s opinion. Although he wasn’t particularly smart, Quentin had entered his school’s spelling bee as a way to earn some money for the new game he wanted. Quentin had lost, of course, to someone who seemed much younger than him at the time. I agreed not to reveal this other person’s identity. But I can see they seemed too smart for someone so young. 

Quentin lost on the word “ambiguity”, which understandably was a hard word for him. But that blasted child had beat him. So he had come home, shut himself in his room, and pledged never to come out again unless someone offered him cookies. He didn’t get the cookies. 

Please, right now, I beg you to stop reading this for your safety and possibly for my own as well. I don’t want your death to be on my hands, so please stop reading. Danger and death lie ahead, and the only way to stop that is to stop reading. 

Anyways, Quentin was feeling so upset that he decided it would be a good idea to get his good old friend Joshua out of the closet. 

It had been a year since the poor raccoon had been tucked away in a closet, and he was old and ratty looking by now. But Quentin was so overcome by the embarrassment of his failure that he didn’t care as he clutched the toy to his chest. 

It took him a moment to realize how silly he would’ve looked to anyone who was watching. Then he reminded himself that no one was watching him, so it didn’t matter. 

Quentin was wrong. 

He sat the raccoon on his desk, its large green eyes staring at him like voids of darkness. 

Now, Quentin hadn’t known about his gift of synthesia. Not until the spelling bee where one of the words - the word the stupid child had beat him on - was synthesia. The child had asked for the definition and Quentin realized that he matched the description. 

Before he had hidden away in his room, he had grabbed a sheet of paper and colored pencils from his sister’s desk downstairs. 

The pencils were splayed across his desk like a wooden rainbow, the white sheet of paper still blank like Quentin’s expression as he picked up the pink. It took him about twenty minutes - some writing, some choosing colors, and some staring into space. 

But finally his masterpiece was done. 

Quentin had drawn his alphabet in the colors he saw them in. Pink, blue, yellow - he saw them all. In his tiny, cramped handwriting he had made a sliver of his world. He held it up to the light, right in front of Joshua’s face. “What d’you say, little buddy?” he asked. “Should I tell them I’m special?” 

The raccoon didn’t respond. But someone had heard him and someone had seen everything. 

I can’t exactly give you the details, of course. But I can tell you what I know - if you are willing to die, that is. 

If you value your life, please stop reading and go away. You’ve endangered yourself enough as it is. Only true danger lies ahead for those whose curiosity controls them. There is no escape if you keep reading. 

That night, a dark figure appeared in Quentin’s room. The next morning, Quentin was gone. That’s all I know - the extent of my knowledge. Actually, I do know one more thing, but you must promise not to tell anyone. 

You see, Quentin was taken because he was special. But how did anyone know he was special? Look at the clues and notice the certain blue raccoon that saw it all. 

That’s right. There are people always watching through the eyes of your favorite toys. 

If you’re special, they’re coming. If they see you reading this, they’re coming. You might be wondering how they know this story exists. Or how they got cameras in the eyes of your toys. 

But the real question you should be asking is how I know all this. 

Well, let’s just say I didn’t get rich from just writing. No, sir, I am an inventor - and if you paid attention earlier, you would know that I am also not human. 

That’s all I can say, but this is your warning. 

My dearest reader, they are always watching.

Author's Note

This is a sequel to After Hours, another story I wrote. This one was kind of just a way for me to relax after a longer story, so the grammar and stuff might not be super good. I don't know if this is more creepy or comedy, so that's for you to decide.