He’s nervous. I can feel him watching the vodka in my hand and hoping really hard that I don’t drink it. He needs this job, but I need him out of my head. He said he can’t leave, has even tried to get me to leave him! The bloody nerve; as if I’d be squatting in his head if I could get out. I can live with some of it. I’ve actually gotten quite used to having his world, his life, laid over mine. It’s like one of those maps that they use to show how a town has developed over time; except there’s been a mix up and who ever made it has used the wrong town for the overlay. It was terrifying at first. I couldn’t pick out what was his and what was mine, but I’ve gotten quite good at it. I don’t get nearly as confused now unless I’m tired or drunk. Not that I drink very often; on top of everything else it is just too disorientating, not pleasant at all. But it will mess with him almost as much as it will me. All I have to do is drink the vodka and there is no way he’ll be able to hold down an interview. It would be so easy to dedicate myself and ruin his life just like he’s ruining mine. I don’t want to do that though, I just want him to know that he isn’t welcome.
Surprisingly, it can be quite good fun sometimes; watching his life unfold, seeing and feeling his reactions to everything. It’s reassuring too. I thought I was making a mess of my life, but at least I’m not as bad as him. He has tried to talk to me about today, to call a truce, but I’m not having it. Not after what he did to me on Thursday. I want the man out of my head and if he won’t just go then he needs to know that I can make life as bad for him as he is making it for me. A wave of sadness and shame hits me at the thought; I never used to be like this. I’ve always thought of myself as nice – a thoughtful, considerate person. The problem is, though, that just the same as I can see him, watch him and judge him; he can do the same to me. It’s awful, having no place to hide from someone, from anyone, never mind a complete stranger. But he can see everything. Every dirty habit, every nasty little thought; all the stuff that I have always kept hidden; that I have never shared with anyone. He can see it all and I can hear his opinion on me every time. It’s worse than that even; I can’t just hear his judgement, it isn’t like someone following me around, telling me their thoughts on what I’m doing – all of their thoughts, whether I want them or not. I can feel it. I can feel his disgust when I pick at my nails, his malicious amusement when I make a mistake. Everything I do merits instant, physical, brutal feedback from a man I’ve never so much as spoken to and it is awful.
I call up my wildest, weirdest dreams and drink the vodka as fast as I dare.