Stranger

You see a stranger, a harmless young stranger wobbling along the sidewalk clenching fists of his hair frantically. He's muttering to himself, "Don't let them put you there, don't let them put you there!" and "breathe, breathe, breathe!"

He sees you, looks at you desperately, and rushes in your direction. At first you panic but you quickly realize he is in danger and needs anybody, just anybody to listen to him.

He reaches you and his words all come gushing out "help me! Help me, help me please!"

You look around nervously. Maybe he isn't talking to you. But you see that you are the only one there.

"Yes? What's wrong?" you stammer. You look at your watch automatically. 5:43pm. You're coming home from work and know that you shouldn't be late or your family might worry. You cast that thought aside as you glance up at the stranger again, seeing the panic in his large eyes.

"Help me please!" he's begging now.

You know that, if anyone was here but you, anyone else was here, he'd be asking the same thing of them. He is so desperate for help that he asked the first person he saw. And it was you. You decide that it is the only thing you can do.

"Okay, alright! Should I call 911?" you rip your phone from your pocket and flip it open swiftly.

"No, no!" the stranger shouts "No, just, just talk to me. Just distract me."

"Oh…" you stow your phone away and shift awkwardly. You say, "Uh, what's the matter?"
He starts breathing faster and says through gasps, "I am – having – a panic – attack!"

He holds his stomach and bends over, heaving.

"Oh my, okay, uhm" you look about again for something that could assist you, anything. You see a bench and start directing him over to it.

"Let's just sit down, uh, then, over here. Calm down, it's er, okay!" you get him to sit in the bench, his breathing quickening. He bends his head between his knees as you sit beside him uneasily.

You wait for him to look up or say something, but he doesn't move. Your watch tells you it's 5:46pm.

Finally, his head raises and he eases himself back in the bench, his lips completely white.

"Are you okay? Are you sure I shouldn't call someone?" you ask apprehensively.

He shakes his head and stares in front of him, transfixed.

"Just talk. Just say anything." He says softly.

"Uhm, alright. What's your name?"

"No, no." he shakes his head again. "Tell me about you. What's your name?" he turns his head to you slowly and fragilely.  

"My name? Oh, uh Matthew. Matthew Richards."

He nods his head encouragingly.

"I'm, uh, I'm 33. I am married and I have two kids –"

"What are their names." He says looking away again.

"Uhm, Matilda and Arik. Matilda is four and Arik is six –"

"Those are great names."

"Oh, ha, yes." You smile nervously. "Yes, my wife thought of Arik. I named Matilda."

"What do they look like?"

"Uh," you attempt to describe them but remember you have pictures of them in your wallet. You pull them out and smile, seeing the picture of Matilda hugging a disgruntled Arik on Christmas morning.

You show it to the teenager, losing yourself in the memory.

"She is so fond of Arik. She really looks up to him. Ha, one time, Matilda built this terrific mud castle for him when we went to the lake. It was so sweet. She called him the King of Swamps. She was his knight, and said she would forever defend his honor." You chuckle to yourself as you tuck your wallet back in your pocket.

There was a comfortable short silence until the stranger spoke.

"She sounds smart for her age."

"Oh, she is. She is a genius. And Arik, he is too. Only in a different way. He likes to create."

You laugh to yourself but the teenager interrupts you before you go on.

"What about your wife?"

"Oh, yeah." You sit back and grow more comfortable. "Her name is Carla. I met her in college."

"That's it?"

"What's it?" you look at him curiously.

"What else about her?"

"Oh, well, she is…She's just lovely. I love her. I can't really describe her beyond that. She's just someone you have to meet. I'll tell you, not a single soul could hate that woman."

He nods slowly. He squints his eyes and thinks for a moment.

"Keep talking."

"I work for an insurance company. I just got back from a meeting we had – "

"Something else," he shakes his head, indicating that he wasn't distracted enough.

"Oh, okay…I like to write." You pause. You hadn't told anyone that since junior high when you were trying out for the school newspaper.

"Do you? About what?"

"Anything. I like to write poems. I write short fictional stories, I write about my day. I write about people I meet."

"Will you write about me?" the stranger asks. He stares into your eyes searching for honesty and trust in someone he doesn't know. You see how lost he is.

"Of course."

"What would you say?"

"Well, not much." You say bluntly.

He turns to face you completely.

"My name is Bilito. I like to draw. I like to study people."

"Okay, that's a start." You make a mental note in your head. You see his chewed thumbs and shaking hands.

"Why are you so nervous?"

"Don't ask me that!" he shouts, grabbing his hair.

"Okay! I'm sorry! Stop that," you swat his hands away from his head.

"I like to jump on my pogo stick when my wife and kids aren't home. I have a secret passion for cooking and art history. I'm a vegetarian and don't drink unless I know my wife won't find out. I am not interested in football but I do love baseball. I keep a knitted hat an ex-girlfriend made me and photo album of me with my brothers under my bed."

You pause to see if he is still listening. He's breathing normally and looking at the ground in concentration.

"Why do you keep it under your bed?"
"What? Oh," you hesitate. "Well, because…"

The stranger starts pealing his thumbs in anticipation.

"Stop that. Okay, I keep it under my bed because my wife doesn't know about my brothers."

"Why not?"

"Well, one of them…he's in jail. Drugs. The other, he…" you can't finish.

"Distract me." You say.

"What?"

"Please."
"Okay," the stranger says, confused. "I am not married. I'm just fifteen. I'd like to get married, though. I'd like to have a daughter. I'd name her Margot."

"That's a great name."

"Yeah," he smiles. "I like it too. I met this girl named Margot, and I think I love her."

"What does she look like?"

"Oh, well…" he pulls out a torn and old photograph. "Here,"

The photo is of a young girl of about fourteen or fifteen. She has short brown hair and big light brown eyes.

He pulls it away and puts it back in his pocket. "She moved away. But I still call her sometimes."

You both sit back and watch a plane fly across the reddening sky. Your watch goes off then, making the both of you jump.

"Matthew? Matthew?!" someone calls your name in the distance. You look around and see a woman approaching you, running.

"Matthew! Thank God!" she lunges herself at you and wraps her arms about your neck.

She pulls you up from the bench, her face drenched with fear and relief mixed together.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"What?" you ask bewildered.

You cannot comprehend why your wife is suddenly here asking you why you are here.

"I was helping this guy out," you say plainly. "Sorry I'm late, I was just about to come home."

"What guy?"

"This, guy," you look next to you on the bench and see that he had left. "Bilito - ?"

"'Bilito'?" your wife says holding your hands. "Oh, honey…"

"What? What!?"

"I'm so sorry honey, but he's gone…"
You look at her with much perplexity. She stares back with sad eyes and a quivering lip.

"You knew him? Where did he go, he was just here!"

She starts crying softly and squeezes your hands.

"Come on, let's go."

"But wait, I was going to tell him more about Arik and Matilda!"

"Oh, sweety…"

"Wait, who's taking care of them now?"

She starts walking you down the sidewalk but you hardly notice.

"Matthew, we have no children." She gasps.

"What? What are you talking about?"

She avoids your gaze. You stop her and grab her shoulders gently, staring into her brown eyes.

"Carla, where is Matilda and Arik? Answer me!"

She looks away, still crying. She nods her head and says "Okay, okay."

She clears her throat and rips through your eyes fiercely with all honesty and trust.

"Bilito passed away. Years ago. Arik is in jail, honey. He's not your son. He's your brother. So was Bilito. He passed away when he was fifteen."

"But I was just talking to him!"

"I know, I know."

"Where's Matilda then?" you try to make some sense of the darkening situation. You see black spots in your vision and you start to panic.

"She's gone, honey…Years ago…Matilda Margot was your first wife. She knit you that hat…remember? You try to hide it under the bed but I see you holding it sometimes."

You start pulling your hair in fists and hyperventilating.

"Honey, stop that! I'm sorry…" she gingerly moves your hands away and down to your sides. "Let's go to the hospital now, okay."

"The hospital?" you say weakly.

"Yes. You're not well." She holds your hand and puts an arm around your back, walking you down the sidewalk again.

You both reach the hospital and two doctors rush to the door, their white coats thrashing as they run.

"Where did you find him?"

"By the bus stop again, talking to Bilito about Matilda and Arik…"

You are forced to sit down in a chair. You hold your head between your legs and tell yourself breathe.

"Alright. I think he needs to start staying overnight." The doctor said gravely, the other trying to calm you down.

Your wife cries and shakes her head. "No, no! How am I supposed to believe he won't get out again?!"

"He will be provided his own room and we will be paying close attention to him. He will not be able to leave his room anymore without assistance; we assure you the room we provide him is secure and safe…." The doctor's voice trailed off.

All you could see was black, black as you closed your eyes and rocked yourself back and forth. You clenched your hair in fists and mutter to yourself, "Don't let them put you there, don't let them put you there!" and "breathe, breathe, breathe!"