Whenever there was a really bad storm outside, our basement would flood. 

It was an inevitable occurrence. No matter how many times my Tìo ventured down the creaky wooden steps with a new solution in mind, a bad storm would come and fill it with murky brown water. It was why it remained unused for the most part. It was far too unreliable to store old family albums, furniture, or out of season clothing. It was just a vacant space beneath our house, devoid of responsibilities and assigned no expectations. We’d let an exterminator go down there to fumigate sometimes and Nancy had hosted a couple of parties there too. Other than that, we didn’t get too attached to our basement. 

Whenever it would flood, we knew there was nothing we could do until it was over. The water would pour in and rise, stopping just short of enveloping the steps. All we could do was wait until it stopped on its own. 

The basement and I had a lot in common. 

I could not stop the tears flowing down my cheeks after Nancy yelled at me. No matter how many deep breaths I took or how many times I washed my face, fresh streams of water cascaded out of my sockets. Sobs shook my body until my chest and stomach felt tight. My aunt sat with me in my bed for hours, rubbing circles into my back as I layed curled into a fetal position. At first, she was trying to console me, saying that Nancy hadn’t meant what she said or done. She said that her grief was turning into anger and we had to be more patient with her during this time. Then, when I did not take the cue to stop crying at the point a normal person would, I saw concern cast a shadow across her features. She began to ask me what was bothering me. If I was crying because of what Nancy did or something else or if I knew why I was crying. I was unable to answer any of her questions. Everytime I tried to calm down enough to say something, I cried harder. 

I figured that I had reached a boiling point. It wasn’t only the impact of Nancy’s words but Adonis’s death, my mother’s murder, the thoughts about my father, the gun hidden in the house, and what Julio said to me days prior. All of it had gathered together to create one big breakdown. 

These used to be far more common. 

During the first few years after my mother’s death, it was especially bad. I was prone to night terrors, my five year old self never able to sleep a peaceful night without reliving my mother’s murder in my dreams. I would wake up screaming, trembling and unconsolable for several minutes. It became a nightly routine for my Tìo and Tìa to burst into my room at the sound of my cries. They said I would stare with a horror in my eyes that made whatever I was seeing in my mind feel palpable. Sometimes I would calm down and fall asleep with the two of them curled up on my tiny mattress beside me, sandwiching me in a hedge of protection. Other nights, they’d stay up with me until the crack of dawn, forsaking their own rest for my sake. 

I imagined that whenever I showed the slightest bit of vulnerability, this was the version of me my family remembered. The one who would jump at loud noises, the one who needed my aunt to attend every day of kindergarten with her and the one prone to fits of selective mutism. 

Or perhaps it was the teenage version of myself they remembered. The one who still couldn’t seem to shake the past off of her, though it didn’t consciously affect her the way it once did. I was often depressed, having high days and then suddenly losing interest in everything but sleep. I had been very needy back then and maybe I still was. Maybe the last few years went well for me because nothing bad happened - a storm hadn’t passed by. Maybe I hadn’t gotten stronger or more resilient at all. 

It was nine in the morning when I woke up. My face felt stiff and sticky from all my crying. Crumpled up tissues were scattered on the ground in front of my bed. The last time I checked the time it had been three in the morning. I had only stopped crying because I had tired myself out. 

Nonetheless, life had to go on. I would force myself to bounce back. 

The next two days were weird. My crying fit seemed to hang in the air between my family and I, making all of our conversations heavy with words left unsaid. No one addressed my breakdown directly apart from the initial questions about how I was feeling the day after. Nancy never made an attempt to apologize for what she said or did. Instead, we all awkwardly danced around it. 

“I made an appointment with your old therapist for you,” my aunt said, one night after dinner. I was cleaning the dishes and she snuck up behind me, a hesitant smile on her face. She remained a step behind me, like she didn’t care to see my reaction to what she said. She was making an announcement. 

The dish I was scrubbing nearly slipped between my soap covered hands. 

“You what?” For once, I was glad that my voice was naturally passive sounding. I was never good at arguing for that reason. Even when I wanted to sound tough or aggressive, I was stuck with a mellow, raspy voice. I imagined years of barely speaking in my youth was the cause of it. 

“I think it's time you see her again,” she continued. She reached up to the shelf above the sink, pulling out a packet of cookies. The sound of the plastic rustling was loud in my ears as she brought it closer to her. “You don’t have to go weekly but maybe it would be good to check in with her every few weeks to make sure you’re doing alright.” 

The water suddenly turned icy cold and I flinched away from the faucet. 

There was so much I wanted to say. One of those things being the episode I had yesterday was a fluke. I just needed to get it out of my system and it wouldn’t happen again. I wanted to ask her what made her think she could do this for me. She knew I had my old therapist’s number. If I wanted to, I would have made the appointment myself. All of the things I wanted to say died on my tongue as she took a cookie out of the wrapper and left the other two beside me on the counter. 

“You can have the rest,” she said, leaving me alone with my objections. 

I would call to cancel it but I didn’t know if I could tell her I did. Her delivery of the news, it felt like a thinly veiled demand. She wasn’t asking. She walked away without a response from me, leaving out a sweet treat like she was consoling a child. If I told her I wasn’t going, would she swap out her suggestive tone for a harsher one. I didn’t want to find out. 

The next bizarre exchange I had was with Julio. 

I was in my room watching a show Adonis and I had both secretly enjoyed. It started off when he had gotten the time Nancy wanted him to meet her at the house mixed up. He showed up several hours before she had gotten home for work and rather than send him home, I told him he could stay to wait for her. Julio had been home too, running around the kitchen to make himself an ice cream sundae while the two of us were watching whatever channel my aunt had on before she left the house. A foreign drama began to play. It was one of those over the top, cliche tv shows that people loved to hate. We were making fun of it at first but some time between episode three and ten, we found ourselves engulfed in the main character’s love triangle and waiting at the edge of our seats for her brother to realize that he was adopted. 

Knowing we would be laughed out of existence if either of our partners found out we unironically enjoyed a show like that one, we kept our passion for it a secret. Adonis would accidentally show up for a date too early or we’d text while a new episode was on television. The show had gone on a long hiatus after a leading producer passed away but it was making a comeback this month. I was catching up with all the episodes I had missed, wishing Adonis was around to react to the new content with me. 

Julio knocked on my open bedroom door. I paused the episode on a freeze frame of the main couple arguing. Instead of getting on with what he wanted to say, he lingered on the other side of my room, scratching his arm and looking around like he would rather be anywhere else.  

“Can I help you?” I asked. 

“I’m sorry about what I said a few days ago. I didn’t mean it.” Guilt swam around his brown irises and I had no doubt he was sorry for saying what he said. What I doubted was that he didn’t mean it. If I hadn’t cried like a baby all night, I didn’t think he would be apologizing like he was. He only felt bad because he thought I was falling apart. 

I sighed, placing my hands behind me to sit back on my bed. “Don’t apologize to me out of pity. You meant what you said. I can handle the truth.” 

He stilled his fidgeting for a second. His mouth opened and then closed, like he wanted to say something but then thought better of it. He was probably going to point out the obvious: I couldn’t handle the truth. He told me about the gun and how he really viewed me, then a few days later I had a downward spiral. I pictured him joining my sister and his parents in those hushed kitchen conversations, quieting when he saw me walk in. I was going to become even more of an outsider because of the way I reacted. It felt like I was digging myself a hole. 

The following day, I woke up early and cleaned my room while I waited for my family to leave. I wanted to go outside and feel the sun on my skin but that would be impossible to do without getting hassled about it by my family. Without directly addressing my breakdown, they were implying I should stay inside like a good little shut in. Rather than start another heated argument, I waited for the sound of the locks clicking and the two cars we had driving down the street. 

While cleaning, I found the purse I had taken to the wedding. It was a small, black clutch with a strap I wore around my shoulder. With a shaky hand, I went through its contents. I hadn’t opened it since the wedding and the feel of the fabric underneath my fingers took me back to my seat in the pews of the church, watching Adonis and Nancy stand at the altar  ignoring how frequently Adonis glanced at me. 

In the purse was a tube of lip gloss, some bobby pins, a pack of gum, safety pins, and to my surprise a folded piece of paper. I didn’t remember having placed it in my bag so I unfolded it with growing curiosity. From the folds of the paper rolled out a pen. It clattered to the floor and as I picked it up, I realized it was no ordinary pen. It was the pen from the table set up at the entrance of the afterparty. 

Nancy and Adonis had a bunch of note cards in a pile with invisible ink pens beside them at the table. The prompt was to write a special message to the groom and bride or advice for their marriage. I supposed the invisible ink was a gimmick to get people interested in the activity or to give the illusion of privacy. Like a pencil, the pen had two ends. The first one with the ink and the other with a blue light flashlight that would reveal the ink. 

I certainly hadn’t stuffed the note and pen into my bag. I guessed it was Darren’s doing. He probably wrote something goofy on the seemingly blank card and hid the pen inside so I could read it later. Eager to get out of the house, I placed the note and pen on my shelf for later. I’d save the message for a rainy day. Whatever Darren wrote to me, I would need it for when I felt down.

There were two libraries in the town that I lived in. The Wellington Library and the Boyd Public Library. Boyd was your standard town library. Bookshelves that were modern and new, a color scheme that was bright and fun, school-like desks and chairs with bean bag seats in the child section. It got the job done. The Wellington Library, however, was something different. 

The Wellington Library was almost two hundred years old and stepping into it was like stepping into a time machine. The color scheme was dark and the tone academic. The shelves were a rich brown that darkened with age and the tiles were a cool green that reminded me of sea foam. The shelves went far up into the ceiling so that you needed their staircases on wheels to reach them. The ceiling was painted with a mural, faded and chipped as it were, it was breathtaking. Everytime I visited Wellington, I had to take a few minutes to stare at the beauty.

The mural was a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, taking a very European kind of style. The colors used matched the interior of the library well, sea foam green, browns, and shades of gold. The dome like structure of the roof made it even more dynamic, alluring you to stare up at it for longer. 

I went to Wellington Library more for my soul than for the books. 

With my legs crossed in front of me, I sat at a window nook. My earbuds played a soft guitar melody as I took in the atmosphere. The library wasn’t very busy. There was the occasional person wandering down to the end of an aisle, ending up where all the arched windows were and where I was. Most of them remained up front by the desk, some making inquiries towards the aging librarian and others browsing the shelf for a book. 

It was clear that whoever took care of the place was on top of their dusting but they could do nothing to rid the place of that old book and paper smell. I wouldn’t imagine why they would want to. 

For a few moments, I forgot about Adonis’s death. I forgot about my mother and father, what Julio and Nancy said, the wedding and the weakness I had shown to my family in having a breakdown. For a moment, I was fully present. Then, my phone rang. 

One glance at the screen showed me it was an unfamiliar number. 

“Hello?” I said, holding the phone up to my ear. 

The voice that replied was deep, unnaturally deep. Immediately, I thought of the filter news channels used when interviewing someone who wanted to remain anonymous. I figured that it was a scam call. My thumb was instinctively making its way towards the button to hang up before I could process what the voice was saying. 

“Someone has been following you all morning. I am going to tell you what to do so you lose them.” 

This is a prank, I immediately thought. A very creepy, unhinged prank. 

I pulled the phone away from my ear ready to hang up when I heard the person on the other line shout. I placed the phone back up to my ear, startled that it was as if the prankster knew I was about to hang up. They couldn’t see me, could they?

“Wait! Mickey Morales. Your name is Mickey Morales. I’m not messing with you. This is real. Listen to me. I want to help you.” 

My heart thudded strongly against my chest and I could hear the pounding in my ears. My surroundings blurred as a familiar sense of panic dug its thistles into my skin. 

The person's tone was too sharp to be a bored neighborhood teen. 

“How do you know my name?” My eyes darted around the library. I didn’t know who I was looking for. A menacing figure in a dark hood, watching me from between the shelves? 

“I have a job to protect you,” they said. The words should have meant nothing considering I didn’t know who this person was. However, hearing that they weren’t trying to harm me was like a splash of cold water on my face. I shouldn’t have believed them but there was something in their voice that was paternal. It was probably the voice changer messing with my head but I pictured a bear hovering over its cubs. “There’s someone who has been following you and I don’t want them to get you alone. Listen to my instructions and we’ll get them off your trail.” 

Then, I was thinking of Darren. It was him that had bravely taken charge in order to keep me safe. It was such a noble act that any tiny whisper of doubt about Darren had fled immeditaley afrerwards. A person doesn't risk their lives for someone they don't love. 

But Darren wasn't with me and this wasn't Darren.

Deciding with determination that I wouldn’t freeze up like last time, I asked  “So, you can see me?” 

“Yes.” 

For some semblance of control, I remained unmoving despite the urgency dripping from the caller's voice. “What am I wearing?” 

The person sighed, hesitating as if wondering if they should humor me. With a new air of frustration, they answered, “A tight fit, brown blouse with sleeves that go up to the elbows and tiny useless buttons that go down to your chest. You have blue jeans that flare out at the ends with a pair of ridiculously clean converse.” 

Something flickered in the back of my skull, a memory or link. The pinch of personality the mysterious person had shown had reminded me of someone or something. It was out of reach though, floating far off in the depths of my mind. 

I eyed the people around me more suspiciously. To think I had been sitting there, feeling safe and content. How did this person pick up that I was being watched when I didn’t? I wasn’t overly absorbed by anything on my walk to the library or while I sat at the window. Why didn’t I know something was off?

“What does the person following me look like?” 

“Finally, you’re asking the right questions.” The exasperation in the caller’s voice made me feel scolded. “Don’t search for him right now. He’ll know you know.” 

“So my stalker is a him?” 

“He’s got blond hair that goes down to his shoulders, wide set eyes, and a big nose. He’s wearing a gray sweater with a zip collar. Very clean and well kept.” 

With a description given, it was very hard for me to resist the urge to scan the library for a match. I wondered how close this person had gotten to me. Were they maintaining a fair distance or was I so oblivious I had brushed by him? Close enough to smell his cologne but unaware enough to not think anything of him?

“And he’s been following me all morning?” 

“Since the second you left the house.” The bluntness of the statement chilled me to the bone. 

“So that means you have been too," I countered. 

They both knew where I lived.

What had this anonymous person been following me for? The only thing I could think of was that they had anticipated I would need protection. Images of the wedding flashed in front of my eyes. I saw a gunman grab Adonis by the shirt, pulling him inches from his face. Was I at risk of meeting a similar fate? If these criminals were so bold as to crash a wedding, why wouldn't they shoot up a library? 

“I’m not creeping in the shadows anymore, am I?” the person responded as if they expected my blind trust. Clearly, they weren't prepared for any push back. 

“Why the voice changer?” 

“It’s important that I stay anonymous for both our sakes." There was a finality to the statement and somehow I knew that no matter how hard I tried to push back against the mystery surrounding the caller, I'd get nothing. “Now, pretend you hung up the phone but keep me on the line. Just use your earbuds instead.” 

Awkwardly, I clicked left of the red hang up button. Then I pressed the sides of my phone  making the screen go black as if it was no longer in use. I felt twitchy as I leaned forward to slide the phone into my back pocket. I hated the hair raising feeling if being watched. 

“Now," the caller continued, their voice more intense from the speakers of my earbuds. "I want you to go down to the very end of the library shelves at a regular pace. Once you get behind them, jog down the aisle.” 

My legs were wobbly as I strolled. As much as I tried to act natural, I could tell I resembled a toddler taking their first steps. The bookshelves made me feel hidden and it became easier to breeze past them. 

“Leave but slow your pace.” 

The light streaming through the stained glass windows of the library doors looked like the glow of Heaven. The late summer chill in the air was sobering. As I booked it down the block, the tightness in my chest loosened. 

“Is he still following me?”

The store fronts of the street were vibrant and shiny in the noon sun. Each glass display's caught the sun elegantly, like they had all been freshly cleaned. It was because of their shine that I caught the reflection of someone standing a few feet from me. 

I saw the shoulder length blond hair first. The wind set it flying into his face as he exited the library. Then my eyes trailed down the reflection to his gray, zip collar sweater. I averted my gaze before we could make eye contact, swallowing a gasp. 

“You want to cut him off at the light," the caller said. "Hurry.” 

I located the cross walk they were indicating, switching to a jog. The light was about to change. It probably seemed like I was only trying to catch the light. The blinking red hand stopped as my feet touched the side walk. I fought to urge to check and see if the man had crossed with me.

When I didn't hear any foot falls behind me, I deemed it safe to speak. "I saw him. Why is he following me? How do you know all of this -?” 

“Focus." Immediately, I was aware of how hysterical I had sounded. I took a deep breath and listened. "Go into the market and weave through people.” 

Sure enough, the supermarket across the street had out numerous stands of produce, taking over the whole block. The inside of the store blended into the outside, people bumping elbows at as they checked the quality of fruit. The crowd meant that it would become increasingly hard for me to detect my stalker but maybe that was okay if it meant they couldn't find me either. 

"He’s actually searching for me," I said as I caught a glimpse of a blond head whipping around the entrance of the market. I dipped my head low and moved further back, getting annoyed looks from the people I pushed past. "Why is he searching for me?” 

“He wants to hurt you.” Again, the resigned matter-of-factness was unsettling. 

"How do you know?” 

“He has a gun." 

I tripped on my own feet and had to grab onto a nearby shelf to stop myself from falling. I righted myself, pulling my tote bag further up my shoulder and smoothening my pants. My hands were shaking. 

The smell of copper filled my nose. I could see the water tinited pink washing down the faucet of the police precinct. I thought of the skirt of my dress, stained forever in red. I thought of my mom. 

“Hey, I said that so you would understand how serious this is, not to freak you out.” 

“I’m fine," I breathed. The clerk working at the delimeats section of the market was staring from me to the tote bag around ny shoulder. I turned from him, trying to act occupied by scanning the rows of strawberry containers for the best batch. It was the groundingness of the mundane task that seemed to slow my heart rate. Soon, I was almost convinced that this was what I was actually doing: looking for strawberries. 

The voice on the phone had yet to say anything in a while. It was radio silence on their end. The rustling of plastic bags and chatter of the market was more audible than the person was. 

"Is the coast clear?" I asked. "Hello?” 

Nothing. 

I opened my phone to see that the call had ended a minute ago. What did it mean? Was I safe now or did something happen to them? 

Wanting nothing more but to return home where I'd feel safe, I hurried down the maze of aisles and stands. 

Then I bumped into someone. It was a full on collision. My head hit a chest hard with muscle and fat. When I staggered back, an apology on my tongue, recognition flooded my mind. The shoulder length blond hair, wide set eyes, big nose. Clean, well kept. 

In a panic, I grabbed the nearest thing to me which happened to be a roll of cabbage. I tossed it at the man's head and ran back up the aisle without looking back. 

“Stop! Police!” I heard from somewhere. Relief flooded my system and I realized help was near. Perhaps the anonymous caller had ended their call with me to call the police. Not wanting to let my stalker gain ground on me when help was so close, I continued fleeing down the aisle.

Then, the same strong chested man cut me off at the next aisle opening  holding out something to me. His stern expression, jaw clenched and eyes burning holes into me, seemed bold for a criminal. 

The object he held to me came into focus. It wasn't a gun like I had feared. 

It was a badge. A police badge.

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