9 A.M., Day Four
I am average, not considered handsome or ugly, with hair not particularly wild but not particularly tame. I am tall, almost uncommonly so, and yet I am often mistaken for being shorter than I am. My eyes are gray, like the brewing sea before a storm, and my high nose is an awkward feature that demands the most attention, sticking out from my face and doing anything but complimenting my high cheekbones.
I am pale yet people describe me as dark and brooding, like I’m on the verge of a breaking point. My arms aren’t sticks but hold little muscle; yet they still earned fear and respect from those who knew me back in New York.
Maybe it’s the scars that run along my neck and jaw, reminding people that I may appear ordinary, may appear to dangle between average and plain boring, but I am anything but.
I remain in between, undefined by looks and stale clichés created by our culture. I will not let the world create an image of who I should be because I was born a certain way.
I am Sean Brogan, and I am who I will be, and no one can tell me any different.
I walk the mile into downtown the day after Joe’s visit and hope to find food staples to get me through the next two weeks. The town reminds me of a Hallmark movie, old buildings built even before my father’s time, mid-century diners and coffee shops, clean streets that aren’t littered with needles and garbage. The locals wave at strangers, open the door for the person behind them, and smile when they meet your eyes.
A different world from what I’m used to.
Here, I’m a nameless tourist, not a troublemaker bringing down hell. They never saw me with a joint between my lips or a beer in my hands. I’m in town for a peaceful visit, a young man in his late teens, his inward and outward scars hidden. At this last thought, I rub a hand along my chin where light stubble hides the evidence of the fights that have left their marks.
I cross the street, dodging a few motorists and kids on bikes. A man with long, unkempt hair and baggy clothes seems to be searching for dropped change outside the storefronts—a small tarnish to Lake Fort’s otherwise squeaky-clean appearance. The man lifts his head as I pass, giving me such a wide and unfiltered smile, I can’t help but return a small grin.
Inside the mini-grocery store, under the blinding white lights, I grab a basket, hoping to get in and out without making eye contact with anyone.
Shopping tops the list of things I hate, right up there with blood, hunting innocent animals, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The chore involves interacting with people, mundane tasks, and mainly lots of people. Ever since I hit the news for finding the dying woman, I’ve been stopped in public, asked for autographs, pictures... details about my life, if I’m going to be the next Sherlock Holmes.
And I know it’s the last thing, more than anything, that leaves me with a headache. This sick society that turns you into a hero for being related to a famous person, for solving crimes—not for preventing them.
Scanning the aisles, I throw in a loaf of bread, butter, Earl Greyer tea bags, honey, and bananas. The produce section is quiet this early in the morning; only a few customers nod politely as they pass, but that is the most of my human interaction.
I scan rows of canned chicken for chicken salad when I feel eyes on me. My back stiffens as I pretend to study the salt content of the cans, as if I really care about that.
I remember how my social media followers skyrocketed, people asking for interviews. I remember how they unearthed my blog, reading my articles about human interaction, theology, and philosophy, and even my terrible movie reviews.
It was because I was the distant grandson of a famous detective who solved the mystery of another’s death.
But that does not make me a hero.
I swallow a yawn and hear someone nearby copy me seconds later. I hate it when people watch me now, hoping to learn some secret or see me as the resurrected detective.
Or—dread seeps through my pores at this thought—it could be an even darker part of my past haunting me.
Turning to my stalker, I try to flash my most condescending glare. “Have a problem, buddy?”
He stands there in sweats and a grey sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, his muscles evident even underneath the bulk of his clothes. His eyes flash with anger as he joins my staring contest. “Man, I just need to get to the chicken.”
I take a step back and nearly knock over a display of mac-and-cheese boxes.
Idiot. Do you think everyone is amazed by you? Grow up.
“What is your problem?” the man mutters as I stumble away. “I was waiting for my flippin’ turn.”
My lungs fold and cut off my air.
Out.
I need to get out.
Pansy. Get out of here before you make more of a fool of yourself!
“Sir, are you okay?”
I cut my glance to a store employee in a blue vest. “I’m fine.”
She smiles at me under large, nerdy glasses that swallow her small face. Her pointer finger pushes the frames higher up her nose, and even in my panic, I notice her fingernails are stupid short, so much so, they’re almost picked clean off. The chick has some serious OCD issues.
My white knuckles grip the handle of my basket, and I cross the aisles like a man on fire. I wait in line, placing my food on the belt, practicing deep, even breaths.
One. Two.
Breathe in.
Three. Four.
Breathe out.
The clerk smiles at me, but my mind’s somewhere else as I pay the cash.
Wrong.
I am wrong.
He isn’t a stalker or a fan or even a creep, but a customer like me waiting for stupid cans of chicken.
Once I pay and I’m outside with the cold wind on my face, I can finally feel freedom in my lungs. I shove everything down in my backpack and trudge back toward the cottage. Not everyone’s out to get me, searching for information to use for my destruction.
Yet, as I dash down the street with the mist in my face, I can’t help but feel they are.