Every Little Thing

51

|| Reed ||

There's something weird about watching someone write. It feels too personal, too intimate—even though Evelyn is asking me for help, I can't help but feel like I'm invading her privacy by simply leaning over her shoulder to peer at the computer screen. Her hands are shaking against the keyboard, and I try to give her shoulder a squeeze, unsure whether the gesture makes matters better or worse. I release a breath, and so does she.

"Go ahead," I say, and—slowly but surely—the story begins.

October 13th, 2017.

I was at a house party and I left my date upstairs for a while to get some air. I didn't drink or smoke anything, but when my attacker (who I recognized, but never really knew) approached me, I could tell that he could.

For privacy's sake, let's call him Harold.

Despite the somber mood, I can't help but laugh.

"Like my dog?" I ask, and Evelyn nods without the smallest crack of a smile. Guilt sinks in my stomach and I clear my throat. "Sorry."

She doesn't say anything; she just keeps writing—fingers flying across the keyboard in a blur as her words blaze a trail behind the cursor.

Harold and I had only met once before this encounter, and the outcome hadn't been exactly pretty. It was at a—

I can feel the heat rising in my face as I clench my hands, part of me hoping she'll reveal who actually did this to her, the other part begging her not to. As I watch with bated breath, she turns around and whispers,

"Could you maybe...um, close your eyes for this part?"

I'm shocked to find disappointment blooming in my chest, but I comply anyways. As I hear the clacking of keys it's nearly impossible not to peek, but I don't. Evelyn's secrets belong to her, and her only.

After a few minutes have gone by, she allows me to look again. My eyes jump to the latest paragraph and I begin to read, trying my hardest to regulate my breathing as I do so.

Harold offered me punch, and I accepted. I was nervous and intimidated, as one tends to be when the anxiety trapped inside of them is going haywire, but I was also trying to fit in. Trying to act normal for once.

Things took a turn once I was inside the pantry. Harold did not pour me punch; instead he closed the door behind him. My instinct told me something was wrong, and I asked him to open the door.

He didn't. Instead—

She stops writing, and I release a breath I wasn't even aware of holding. Clearing my throat, I look down at her, but her gaze is directed at the floor.

"What's another word for strangled?" she asks, quietly, and my stomach plummets.

Oh, God.

"Um," I try to say, but it comes out a feeble croak. "Choked? Throttled?"

"I think I'm just going to stick with what I had," Evelyn decides, and I feel my gut twist.

"Sorry," I say, pushing a nervous laugh through the words, "I'm not used to—um—"

"It's okay. I get it."

She continues to write, and I pull up a chair beside her, watching the frown of determination dig a line between her brows, watching her long, slender fingers move across the keyboard, trying to read the reflection of the screen from the depths of her eyes and realizing that, in the light of her irises, the words appear to be written backwards.