I didn’t come to this decision easily, but I can’t ignore him anymore. It was childish to have ignored him for as long as I did. It was unlike me. I guess that pride gets the better of all of us from time to time. It was the painting incident that forced me to finally accept that he was more than just a benign growth on my existence.

I’m still bothered by the ease with which he was able to paint that scene. Perhaps this is just my pride rearing its ugly head again. It was a fluke. I’m sure if I tried it again, I’d be able to make something much better. This brings me to the first part of my plan. The main issue is that he has all of the information.

He just sits there, studying me. I need to figure out how to gain some separation from him. First, I had to figure out what his presence felt like. It took some time, but eventually, I discovered the sensation. It’s like when a fly is buzzing around. Not right when you notice it, but the following moments when you know that it’s there, but haven’t seen any evidence of it in a while. That slightly raised awareness that it’s buzzing around somewhere.

Once I knew when he was watching, I just had to find a way to freeze him out. Luckily for me, I recently discovered that I’m quite good at repressing things. Now I need to do it with purpose. It’s like contracting muscles I didn’t know existed. But soon enough, the fly has been silenced. I can’t get rid of him like this forever. It’s more that I’m covering him with a heavy blanket. He still thrashes about, and it requires constant focus to keep him in the dark.

When I finally figured out how to isolate him, I thought about what I should do with my new found privacy. Logically, I know that I should be spending time planning a way to eliminate him. And yet, there is something that is mangling the gears in my brain. I know that it’s a waste of time, but I can’t think past it, and the grinding metal keeps pulling me back.

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I found myself seated at my desk, a paint brush and canvas in front of me. He’d been pushed away, and I knew that I’d be able to paint something now that I’m not being so keenly observed. There’s no other explanation for my struggles from the day before. When I was watching him, it dawned on me how simple his movements were. It wasn’t as if he had created some sort of masterpiece.

But it was taking too much time. I felt the hours sliding past. I just couldn’t figure out where to start. A ticking sound continued on and on, growing louder the more I tried to ignore it. It’s the damn clock on my bookshelf. I got up to put it in another room, but something came over me when I looked down into its face. I lifted it up over my head and threw it down hard. The thud and crash of broken glass rang out through the empty house. I decided to clean it up later. I had to return to my painting, or lack thereof.

Why is this so hard? I took a deep breath, dipped the brush in a shade of red that reminded me of rust. I drew a line across the page, expecting there to be a great release as the project was finally started. Instead, I felt something like rage growing in my gut. What an awful way to start.

Deep in my head, I felt him shifting, and I found myself giving in to that rage. Each brush stroke I hoped would quell the feeling, but it only increased. My hand began to shake, marring the page further, though it felt like it couldn’t make it any worse. I tried to take my time, to paint one thing at a time and to wait to look at the whole thing, but it was futile. I stared down at the mess, and before I knew what I was doing, I started tearing it to shreds.

What followed gets fuzzy. It’s as if someone had thrown that blanket over me as well. Seconds, minutes, hours passed, and I am in this nebulous place where I’m more an observer than the active participant. The thing that finally brings me back is a voice from the doorway. I snap back into my body, suddenly aware of the state of things.

The desk, the bed, the floor, are all covered in paint, and bits of canvas. I try to turn to see who spoke, and feel sharp pain in my feet. I look into my mother’s face and it’s only then, seeing the fear in her eyes that I feel it too.