Perception

Perception

My name is Alan, but the story I want to tell you is not mine. Before I start I have to make one thing clear. Although I like to observe people, I am not a voyeur. I do it because I like to spin stories around my perceptions.

She lives in the apartment next to mine, and our windows are positioned at a right angle. When I look out I have the choice between looking down into the dreary backyard of a rundown house, or into her tiny apartment. Her bed stands in front of the window, next to it a table and rocking chair. I guess she has the television on the right side of the window because at night you can see the light of a screen, illuminating her figure. And because she has the window always open, I can even hear when she turns up the volume. Anything else in the apartment is hidden, but I imagine that she has a neat working space, with a desk and a computer and maybe a large closet. Why do I think that? She has a lot of clothes. I have seen her for two months and she has never worn the same thing twice, and she has that air around her, which tells the outsider, “I am somebody!”
She is what most people would call attractive. She has long sleek hair, which she dyes in various shades of dark red, a light porcelain complexion, full lips and beautiful eyes. Her body has soft curves that make up for the stern expression on her face and her legs are long and shapely. But her smile never reaches her eyes.
Before I knew her name I used to call her Serena, because she reminds me of a siren, tempting but dangerous. Her name though is Susanna which in my opinion is the wrong name for her, because it implies a purity and innocence that she seems to have lost long ago. Susanna that means: the white Lily.
She has either frequent nightmares or has a very troubled sleep in general. Often as I see her prepare for the night, I think she knows that I observe her, because she closes the blinds when she undresses, but opens them as soon as she is ready for the night.
She lies down in her bed and sometimes an hour passes or just 10 minutes before she turns the light on again. I remain seated on my chair behind the window, a furtive witness to her emotional breakdowns. When she gets up it seems as if she is struggling with the covers, as if they are too heavy for her. She falls back on the bed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She forces herself to breathe in and out slowly, for her face shows pure concentration. She always gets up after a short period of time, as if she is afraid of not being able to get up anymore if she does not move. I lean forward on my chair to take a closer look at her face, and I can see the tears running down her face, staining the shirt that she wears, showing her in a desperate beauty and I know that no one else has seen her like that. When she has stopped crying, she opens the window and whispers into the night.
“Who am I?” I am not supposed to hear that, just as I am not supposed to witness her weakness, but as I hear the question I can’t help myself but look into her face and take a look at her. She is a beautiful woman, but I cannot remember having seen anybody at her side, apart from her best friend who is gay. How do I know? Remember the open window? I listen to the words that drift in my direction without them knowing. She is talking to him about his boyfriend, and she is always so though and honest with others, telling them what to do in their relationships and to respect themselves. But when she asks that question, I realize that she does not respect herself.
I look at her and see her face, tired and worn out as nobody will see her during the day, and I see her go back to bed, I see her body shaking as she cries herself to sleep. I feel the pain radiating from her, and it hurts me to think what a nightmare her life must be, so filled with emptiness.
As the morning comes, I hear her moving around, she is up early as always. And when I hear the door clap, time seems to stop for a moment as I contemplate stepping out and confronting her with the question: “Who are you Susanna?”
Would she smile at me? Would she look at me with that strange smile that does not reach her eyes and tell me: “I guess that’s for you to find out isn’t it Alan?” And would I answer: “If you don’t know who you are, then how am I supposed to find out?” And there I realize how silly the whole idea is. The illusion starts taking over and I can’t truly distinguish anymore between my pretence and the truth, the woman I want her to be is someone else than she is. I only know bits and pieces of the puzzle that is her character.
The front door closes with a bang and I am startled from my reverie. I receive a call from my publisher today which tells me that I am overdue with my next short story, and I still have no clue what to write. Susanna comes home late this night and I am standing at my open window, staring into the lacklustre backyard. She opens her window, and looks outside. Her back is a little bit straighter and her eyes are a little bit greener than they usually are. When she turns her head I can see the most amazing thing on her face, a true enigmatic smile that reaches her eyes and illuminates her whole face. With an almost imperceptible nod she acknowledges my presences, before she closes the window and the drapes; shutting me out of her life.
The blinds glare at me with an air of finality and I have to turn away, she is a creature of my mind and I should make the best of it. The radio plays a song of lost love and I feel oddly touched. I switch of the offensive tune and turn on the PC in order to write my newest short story. And while I write I know that sometimes it is better to live with things that you don’t know.

Siren’s Song
Her name was Susanna, but I called her Serena because she possessed not only the beauty but also the deadliness of the mysterious creatures that lured innocent fishermen onto their island in order to feed on their flesh and bones.