“Does Anyone Care?”

by Sona Lea Dombourian

I had told him no—not once, not twice, but three times. And every time I did, he took it like a challenge, like he could somehow change my mind. Like I wasn’t sure. Almost as if it was my job to bend to his will and that his will was more powerful and more important than mine.

So I stopped talking and just walked on. Past his grin that morphed into a sneer as he followed me . . . for blocks. I saw his reflection in the shop windows I passed, the glass doors to the high-rises, heard him cough over the exhaust fumes of the bus that hummed loudly right beside us at the red light. I saw him everywhere, his knowing leer that never wavered, as if he knew my every step, could calculate my next move before I even took one.

My phone rang, thankfully, giving me a reason to pick it up, look like I had to, not wanted to, since that would have only made him leer even larger at me, but it was only a telemarketer--and not even a human one at that. No one I could talk to, beg for help over the honking taxis, musicians beating their drum sets on the corner, the panhandlers yelling for hand-outs. 

So I did the next best thing and acted like he didn’t exist, like he wasn’t there, trailing my every move. I started taking selfies from all angles as I walked, as if to capture myself on all sides, but I was really making sure he was in each shot. People kept knocking into me as I moved towards the intersection, and one even called me a bitch when all I was trying to do was get away from the man. Instead of stopping to help me, everyone stared. Don’t just look at me!, I wanted to tweet. Help me! You’re the bitch for doing nothing, I would have blogged if I could keep a steady hand. There’s a man who’s been following me for blocks and no one cares. Why doesn’t anyone care? I must have made it half-way through downtown with him hot on my heels and no one did anything to shake him off.

At one point, I contemplating screaming: “Help me!” But if he heard me he would have only gotten angry, and if he got angry, God knows what he would do next. I texting friends. “Come helt me pleuse!” to everyone in my contacts.  I wanted to yell but couldn’t find the cap button. 

Why won’t anyone help me? Why doesn’t anybody care? And why are all of you standing around me glaring like I’m the one doing wrong? I’m just trying to get away, get away from him, the man in the suit, fixing his tie as he is looking at me in the reflection of the pay booth—Can’t you see him? I screamed with my eyes to the cashier, the woman I begged to please, please call the police to take this man far, far away from me, but all she did was tell my me credit card had been maxed out.

“Don’t worry,” a deep voice behind me said. “I’ll pay for it—” but I didn’t want to respond, acknowledge that the man following was still there since that would somehow make all this real, so I turned past and walked on, past the meters, past the attendants who must have seen him pay for me since they didn’t ask for a ticket. They watched me trying to get away and did nothing to help, and I realized that the only way to get away from him was to hop onto the next metro.

I rushed so quickly down the stairs that my feet barely touched the steps. When I reached the platform and remembered I still had my phone out in my hand—that he would see I had a way to defend myself—I got frightened that that would make him even angrier, so I put it back in my purse, the purse that Tim gave me for Valentine’s Day, so new it was still shiny like fresh pink nailpolish and thought, Tim, why aren’t you here? I need you! and still he hadn’t responded, did nothing to help me. I could feel the man in the suit moving closer, closer, like even his heartbeat was chasing mine. I was afraid he would rush me, that I’d lose my phone so I shoved it into my purse and watched the small lights in the black tunnel approach, get bigger and bigger and suddenly felt safe, as though they would help me, they would save me, but something grazed my hair and I