Unfinished short story

A Story by bryandredla

read it find out

You ever get that feeling someone is watching you? Don’t worry it’s just me. Well us I can’t be the only one. People don’t realize how the little things they do, how they cause a ripple. Butterfly Effect, Karma, Déjà Vu, Domino Effect, Feng shui, Newton’s Law, Fate maybe these things don’t exist. Maybe s**t just happens. To you, to me, well the way they used to happen to me, before I was this. To us. That’s why I get to well, have to watch you. It’s compelling almost, a moth to the bug zapper, it’s like I can’t stop, I feel forced anymore to watch, unallowed to stop what I see coming. No “Watch out for that train!” or “Don’t cut down the alley on the way to work today, the way you have the last six months you’ve had this job, you’re going to get robbed if you don’t take the long way.” I am the feeling you get at night in bed when you feel like someone is watching you or someone is in your apartment because you know what your place sounds like after you shut your television off to go to sleep, and you don’t recognize that sound. That feeling you get in the shower, no not that one, the one that feels like you’re not alone in your four by eight single bathroom. I don’t mean to watch you trust me it’s not what I want to do, but for some reason I have to. Beyond our control, above our understanding. People seem to think that life isn’t a choice, well having one isn’t but living one is. You’re always one slip away from death, just some baby oil in the shower, or an even worse way to have to explain to your family that you have died, a backed up sewer main under your apartment building, for some reason the backup triggered the opposite of a clog and the buildup of pressure forces all your neighbors feces and your own back up your anus. All those dollar items from fast food on the way home from work, your neighbors cheeseburger jammed right up your a*s in tiny bites so fast it’s in your stomach faster than if you had eaten it yourself. Man I feel bad for the police detective and city inspector that have to explain to your family that you died from an “Intussusception,” that’s what it is called when one section of your intestines slides itself into another. “Like an arm into a sleeve,” the mortician tries to explain with his doctor lab coat half over his elbow, just below his cheesed grin he says “very rare, I’ve never seen it.” Don’t worry that’s not the real way you die.