Was I Not There?

Was I not there? At all your concerts, large and small? Did I not accept every invitation? You dragged your equipment from house to van, and from van to stage, and back again. You spent endless hours sound checking, assembling and disassembling your equipment. The microphone beeped; the crowd chatted or left after the band before you finished; or they just never showed. You were badly paid and got back pains from all your endless driving across the country, trying to build an audience. Was I not there, at your gigs? Was I not standing at the back of every gig, cloaked in multiple disguises? Was I not the man-bunned guy sipping his craft beer? Was I not the old man, hovering his teary-eyed face over his whisky? Was I not the meretricious young lady, hardly clad in anything? Was I not there, the face of dozens of strangers, your biggest fan? 

Was I not there, as you walked alone on the beach? An invisible pair of footsteps imprinted on the sand beside yours? You looked at the great ocean, dark and ancient. Your life you measured against it and felt the dread of how it passes in an oceanic blink. Did you not tremble at the suddenly real prospect of ending it all? Did you not consider ceasing to make footprints on the path of your life? Didn't you pause and wonder how long and painful it would be to walk into the waves and keep walking until the darkness of the ocean consumed you whole? And was I not there, ever cognisant of your feelings, knowing that you would find a path worth walking? Did I not keep my distance, agonising to see you in pain, reminding myself that one must stand alone if one is to truly stand? Did you not notice the shark fin in the distance? The man disguised beneath, breathing through an apparatus, so as not to give myself away? Did I not need to fend off local fishermen, who were incredulous at the presence of a shark in cold water? 

Was I not there, when you needed to move all your stuff? You laboured over boxes and bins and refuse sacks. You placed and then rearranged countless items into storage: toys, crockery, books, DVDs, comics, stationary. Pots and pans, dusters and brushes, toiletries, mats, and shelving. Furniture, cushions, clothes and linen. Bedclothes, ornaments, rugs and pictures. You cursed my name and called me unreliable. But I was there — across the road, peering in the window with binoculars. For every curse you gave me, I returned two lines of praise. You see, I swore I would help you, but I could not accept the gratitude for my help. Did I not come like a thief in the night, as you slept soundly under the blanket of a hard day's labour? Did I not lessen the load of your boxes and bags? Did you not wonder how they felt so light the next day as you transported them to your new home? You gave credit falsely to your night of rest, but I feel no jealousy. To see you toil less is my reward. Did I not return your items between your journeys back and forth between houses, as sneakily as a ninja? Did I not tranquillise you in the back with a dart from a bamboo shoot, when I mistimed your journey and you came back earlier than expected? You probably did wonder about that when you awoke on your couch later. 

Was I not there, when you were in total darkness? You awoke in the woods, cold and alone, your friend gone. The serial killer had dragged her off to his cabin. That's the last thing you remembered before slipping and falling into the ravine. "She's gone", your mind realised upon awakening. "Run for it!" Was I not there, as you hastened breathlessly through the woods, desperate to find the road or a sign of civilisation? When you feared for your life? When you shivered in the cold? When you struggled on against the shock and the devastation of losing a friend so violently? When you momentarily broke down crying? Did I not trail you the entire time, awkwardly waiting for the right moment to reveal myself? Had I not let you sleep, after rolling you over, so you wouldn't swallow your tongue? Had I not waited by your side to ensure you were protected? Was that protection even necessary, given I had called the police and they had arrested the killer and found your friend upset but unharmed? Did I not spare you mansplaining, by not telling you the police were in the opposite direction to which you were running? Did I not startle you a little, getting into my car and starting it once you had reached the road? Did I not drive off — as you screamed at me to help you — sparing both of us awkwardness of me trying to explain why I was there and why I hadn't helped you sooner?

"Of course it looks fake. It was me in a shark suit."