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Lee turns on the porch light and watches the wide yellow beam fizzle out into the night. Fatigue gnaws toothlessly at her. Her hair, still damp from a late shower, brushes soft and cold against her spine. It’s another sleepless night, and her third lap of the house so far.
It's not so bad. She likes her home; she likes living in it alone. Her neighbours’ house, peering at her over the woods on the other side of her cabin, can only be accessed by car or a short trek through the trees. They do not bother her, and she does not trouble them. Lee’s problem is that her isolation does not find its way inside her.
For as long as she can remember, somebody – something – has been with her. Just a weightless half-step behind every move she makes. Slotting its chin over her shoulder when it needs her, and whispering there, not there, not her, not him. Where to look, where not to look, what to see and what to close her eyes against.
And it works. She doesn’t see faces in the dark, even when she waits up for them. She always hesitates for just a moment before she lights up each room in her house – you never know. There could always be someone waiting to rush out of a black, open doorway.
Nothing’s ever there. That’s fine. She doesn’t remember anything she doesn’t need. Big red hands, small white teeth. The dull buzz of the porch light, the dark line of the trees.
Lee steps forward, presses her free hand to the window, and she’s up, up, looking down on the end of the road, where that car crouches still and low to the ground. The snow stretches out and out. Miles of flat white nothing, blurring her eyes.
She blinks it out of her head. No, no snow. The porch light hums right in her ear. Nothing but black and grey beyond it. Whatever Lee thinks she’s missing, it’s probably nothing. She gets like this, sometimes. Has long since gotten used to these days when her head won’t clear, even after she gives in, gives another evening up to watching the woods. But still, it numbs her out. Puts her in the backseat of her body like a child left to sleep on a long car journey. She just watches the roads blur while somebody else walks around in her skin and bones, leaving bowls of cereal to congeal and the answering machine inbox to fill up. And it frustrates Lee, because she knows she’s better than this; she’s smart and efficient and dedicated. But what’s a night’s sleep lost, if she can confirm, once again, that she's safe? That she's capable of protecting herself? Lee knows that she’s good, but she still has to prove it.
Maybe she's still adjusting. She only got back from Quantico less than a year ago. It’s funny; she fought to get a post-grad placement in Oregon, just so that she wouldn’t be too far from her mom, and yet most nights Lee asks herself why she ever came back here. This is silly. She is not unhappy with her life.
Lee turns the light off, carefully. Decides to give the cabin one more once-over. Not because she’s like her mom; not because she has to. She moves through the dim amber rooms one by one. There are no stairs in her cabin; no up, no down. She walks the flat length of the house, and back again. With each step, snow crunches up to her ankles.