The mail just won’t stop. The visits won’t stop either. We already moved once, changing our mailing address to a P.O. box and our phone numbers. We even sold our car before the brakes could be cut again-figured that would be safer.

For some reason, it was always a woman who'd come to our door. Exuding such warmth, such attentiveness and care, such a genuine desire for connection. It makes you think of a home you wish you had. A home where children would play in the streets, in the grass that was always green, staying out until dinner time. A home that belongs to you, where the neighbors would always greet you after you came back from your stable job, and your wife would kiss you with an unburdened smile on her face.

The woman would act chummy with you, like she was your friend, your neighbor, just wanting to talk about the latest news or the weather or the renovations happening nearby, then complain about the landlord, despite not living there.

The first time, you can't help but believe it, especially since we were new to the area at that time. I thought that's just how they were here. You can't exactly judge a person for being different or weird. For all I know, only 1 out of 5 people weren't.

I'm weird too, when opening the door, I can't help but be overtaken with the sudden need to uphold friendly neighborly etiquette. Can't help but listen to stories about the new baby, or the husband's new promotion, or the new wallpaper, and how the kids have already managed to damage it. Their oldest was 6, pulled out his tooth this morning, and made sure to let everybody know that the tooth fairy would come that night.

I told her how we are also planning for a baby. We just needed to settle in properly. To stabilize. Maybe in a few years, maybe 5?

Then she responded, " Your putrid child will choke on its mother's blood."

"What?"

The lulling would end so fast, it'd feel like you had cold water poured over you. And you'd realize it's not real. We were found again.

If by the sound of this you're assuming that I'm implying that this is a regular occurrence, it's because it is. You can never tell who is interacting with you is an actual person; you can never tell if they are worth trusting until the bucket gets poured again. It started being different every time.

Marnie doesn't deserve any of this; it's all my fault. But she is understanding. She always is. Her warmth is real.

Michael (year 2004) 1