The black van is parked near me. I can’t breathe because of it. Did it have to be black? That is so premeditated. It didn’t have to be black. Still, there it is: unmovable: staring at me with its dead headlamps. I get up and walk towards it, but after just three steps I give up and swerve right.
I don’t know where I am going. I was enjoying the park, I truly was — as much as someone like me could, at least. And then the van, it had to be there right then, it just had to feed my paranoid mind. It’s not the first time I feel like I’m being closely observed, but it’s the first time I actually take my assumptions seriously.
The van hasn’t moved, nor has anyone gotten off of it: not a single person. The tinted windows and intense mystery surrounding it cloud my judgement, and I just go on, wherever I might be going on to. I am a firm believer that my feet will figure it out on their very own.
The streets are mostly empty. The shops are open, but there are few people inside them. It’s a good idea, I think: to have people work at different times during the day, to enhance productivity or whatever might be the reason why we do it. But sometimes it makes me feel as if I lived in a ghost town: one in which I am one of the few, if not the only person alive and breathing. The other people who have their break at the same time as I do look lost when we bump into one another on the streets. As lost as I usually am. It’s weird.
I look back to the van, but it’s not there anymore, and I can’t see it anywhere else either. The disappearance of the van doesn’t make me feel safer, no: I am even more tense now that I don’t know where it is.
I feel as if something were happening: but what could that be? No, nothing is going on. I did something wrong and now I feel guilty, and the guilt makes me imagine the worst: but it’s just my imagination. I am sure that is all.
The guy with dishevelled hair is leaning against a wall on a tight alley near the park. I can barely see him, and I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for his hands moving and catching my attention. He doesn’t seem to be working. I wonder what he does, who he is: I wonder why he’s leaning so calmly, and nothing in the world could do him any harm. The black van parks right beside me and I don’t understand why, but I know that I am royally fucked: someone says my name and when I turn to find out who that is, it all turns to darkness.