Locket

Locket is the monster in my closet, the voice in my head. In the morning I see her slinking around the door, the door I had shut before going to sleep. She hops on the bed and sits on my chest, a familiar, almost constant weight that steals my breath. I tell her, "Good morning," and pretend that she’s not killing me.

“Good morning, Evangeline,” she says. Her voice is like clouds – sometimes soft as wisps, sometimes booming, bellowing, menacing, but always – always – silky and light.

She says she met me when I was young. For years she watched, circling my life, waiting for her moment to reach into my head and know my thoughts and switch them with her own. I sometimes wonder if I had paid any more attention growing up if I would have seen her coming. Was she the movement in my periphery while I scaled the monkey bars? Did I really feel a cool breeze around my ankles, or was it Locket dogging my steps?

I do not like Locket, but I can’t imagine my life without her.

She's my restraint, my familiar cage. Whenever I'm too reckless, she reminds me of my others’ eyes.. Whenever I'm unsteady, she holds me in place. She never leaves my side. People come and people go, and when they go they don't come back to see what they've left. But not Locket. She's always there.

“I know you like that sweater, Evangeline, but don’t you think it’s a bit dated? Surely everyone will notice that you’ve worn that for years.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, Locket.”

“Do you think they’ll care? They won’t. They’ll just look at you and see that you don’t care about your appearance. And if you don’t care, why should they? Why should anyone care about you?”

Locket first came to me as a rabbit, small and gentle. All black, like space – a void. I pet her, but she was like a fog. Cold, thick, substantial, but still empty. Only her eyes shone. One white, one green. The white one was bright as Sirius, the green, faceted a gem.

She was small and unassuming, and I thought she would be a trusted friend. My shoulder angel, keeping me on the straight.

Locket changes, though. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, she’s a wolf with pincer teeth. They, too, are made of nothing, but that doesn’t make them any less sharp.

“Evangeline, did you really think you could leave without me?” she says, a cat, winding herself around my ankle. Her green eye winks at me.

“I really like this one,” I say, wiping away a small smear of misplaced lipstick. “Please, let me have him to myself tonight.”

“But do you really think he’ll want to spend all that time with just you?” she asks, nibbling at my toes. The pressure is playful even though it stings. “Come now, you know better. As soon as he spends a few hours with you, he will see that there’s someone better. You know you need me to come with you. At least that way, when he leaves you all alone, you’ll have someone there to comfort you.”

I know they’re lies. I know they are.

I sighed and wiped off my lipstick, unable to look at myself in the mirror.

“They always leave you all alone, don’t they? Every last one of them. Gone.”

Why won’t she just stop?

“I’m always with you,” she says, sitting on my chest, cold weight confining my breath. “Always. I’m here for you.”

Lies.

Locket puts her muzzle on my throat and gives it a small nip. Stinging – chilling. Her omniscient eyes watch me, always watching. “Good night, Evangeline.”