STARE

Part One

He walked into the café with a sigh of relief. The sweat that beaded down his back sent a shiver up his spine when it was greeted with the cool air. His head was cocked to the right and his eyes kept only the view immediately in front of him as he approached the counter.

"Hey. How can I help you?" The young woman at the counter said.

He looked up at her, his neck still cocked to the right. For as long as he could remember, he couldn't lift his head fully upright. Not merely impossible, but incredibly painful to even try.

"Medium coffee, please." He said.

"Ok," she said, "that'll be two twenty-five."

She stared at him with a fierceness that made him uncomfortable.

"Can I have a name?" She asked.

"Tim."

She kept her stare as he walked away, hardly breaking eye contact even while she began making his order. It was always the same. He'd go somewhere and people stared. He never quite knew why they did. At first, he would stare back at them in hopes they would stop but they never would. Eventually, he would begin to question them. He'd ask why they wouldn't stop staring and they'd simply apologize, just to keep doing so. He wondered if it was his awkward crick in the neck but he'd seen worse conditions that warranted staring. There was once a man with severe burns outside of a hospital when he was around fifteen years old who looked at him every time he'd come outside for a smoke. Every time, he'd look and look until Tim would make his way to another spot, away from the man. Tim asked the man one day, "Why do you keep staring at me like that? What's wrong with you?" To which the man with the burns replied, "No, what's wrong with you?"

"Tim!" The barista called out.

He grabbed his coffee and began towards the exit. His peripherals revealed the people around him were looking as well. A small child cried in the background against the wishes of his hushing parents. "It's not nice to stare." They said as they stared at Tim themselves.

He walked down the bike lane along the main road towards his house. The black pavement created a distortion in the distance as his back cooked in the sun. A car honked as they drove passed and a car on the other side of the road slowed down as they stared at him. Tim lifted his hand, presenting the middle finger like a prized trophy.

"Almost home," Tim thought to himself, "just got to get there."

As he made it to his driveway he noticed the man next door. He stood on the lawn holding a water hose, looking curiously in Tim's direction. Tim walked into the house and sat where he usually did, on a double-wide love seat made of soft leather. The place was dark save for the television and the light from his phone. His phone was often silent but it rang that day. It rang three times but he never answered. The only number he'd answer was his father's, who had long since passed away at the time. It wasn't until he passed that he stopped going places as much. He'd go to the café. He'd go to the grocery store once a month or as needed. Now and then he'd see the doctor. Most of his life, though, was in that dark room.

"Another day over. Just have to wait the rest of it out." He said.