see you in the dark when you’re sleeping
2k words, 18+
warnings: mild spoilers for the backrooms movie, i try to keep it vague, stalking, perverted daydreaming, unhealthy obsession, delusion (?), voyuerism, clark gaslighting himself about hating you to try and hide that he wants you, likely inaccurate descriptions of working in a furniture store but it’s brief so it shouldn’t matter, i lost the plot here it’s bad, clear mischaracterization of the reader on clark’s part (it’s purposeful)
The soft hum of the store is covered by the scratching of Clark’s pen. Blue ink streaks his thumb and palms. His shoe brushes against the wood of the desk quietly and he occasionally glances up to check on the showroom.
His gaze finds you in the bedroom section, shoes padding against the carpet as you circled around one of the grandiose bed frames.
A welcoming smile pulls at your lips, soft hands gesturing lightly as you speak to the newlywed couple that entered the store moments ago. The chatter from you is quieter due to the distance but Clark can imagine what you’re saying.
The gentle admiration of the wood choice, the engravings in the wood, how modern or antique the furniture is and how to best display it in the home. You bring up your degree in art, a way to ease the customer’s into trusting your compliments and praise. Treating your degree like it was an assurance of quality. Even though most of the furniture was shitty quality anyways.
It impressed him honestly. Your words were carefully curated yet they never felt forced. It was a natural ease and charisma that just seemed to be apart of you.
Clark almost found himself jealous of it. That kindness that seemed to move so easily through you. Your warmth, your earnestly. He wanted to take a little bit of it for himself. Bottle it up and keep it until he understood how to make that ease for himself.
But that isn’t possible. The best he could do was hire you and hope that one day he could figure out what made you so warm.
Clark turns his gaze back down to the sketchpad, the yellow paper marked with his nonsensical sketches of dreams that would never be realized. Something sharp twists in his ribs. Something vicious. The gentle tap of your shoes draws him away from his sketches and he looks up to see you.
Elbows resting on the desk, sleeves curling over your palms, bracelets brushing over the polished wood of the checkout counter. “They’re gonna take the pinewood bed frame,” you gloat, smiling like a cat that brought a mouse to its owner.
“Hm,” Clark hums, dark eyes soaking in the soft glow of your face under the fluorescent lights. “Good job.” He keeps his voice level, but the compliment makes you brighten regardless.
“They’re even able to take it today. So I’ll take it apart with Kat, box it up and then they’ll be set.” Your rings click against the wood as you tap your hands excitedly, rounding the desk to fish out the tool box from where it sits next to Clark’s legs. Instinctively, Clark places his hand under the edge of the desk, palm towards you so if you bumped your head, you’d meet his palm and not hard wood.
He tries to play it off, smiling at you when you straighten up. Clark places his hand back in his lap as you use the arm rest of his chair to stand up. It’s a fluid motion, one you’ve done a hundred times before. You glance at him as you rifle through the tool box. Your head tilts.
“What?”
Clarke shrugs. “Nothing. You’re just- doing a good job.” He smiles, though his tone lacks the full enthusiasm a typical manager would have. But his eyes, a dark brown that almost borders on black, stare at you with something volatile.
You nod, less rehearsed and more awkward now. Your shoulder stiffen as you walk back before you force them back down again.
Clark watches you leave, eyes tracing the sway of your hips and the gentle slopes of your shoulders. His staring stops when the cold, wet feel of ink bursts over his index finger a thumb.
When did he even grab the pen again? Grabbing a tissue from the tissue box that sits next to the never ringing phone, Clark methodically cleans his fingers off while his eyes drift back to you.
That same sharp twist aches behind his ribs. And it burns. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He refuses to. But it still burns. He wants to be like you. Charismatic and bubbly. You flutter between conversations, smiling and laughing with the very few customers that enter the store nowadays. Hell, even Kat and Bobby like you. Kat even drove you home a week ago.
He notices.
He notices the extra coffee you bring for Kat when you’re passing by her for the afternoon shift. He notices the small leather bound sketchbook you keep in your bag that you draw in when no one comes in. He notices the neat twist tie that keeps the wires of your walkman headphones from tangling. He notices how you always shake hands with the customers that do come in.
He notices how you shift on your feet more when you’re unsure about something, how your eyes dart when you want to avoid bringing up the lights flickering. He notices how you’re quieter the first few hours after one of his appointments, trying not to step on his toes.
He notices the faint smear of chapstick on your lips, the brief smell of spearmint that lingers after you first apply it. He notices how you roll your bracelets over your long sleeves and how you roll the charm of your neckless between your index finger and thumb.
He notices it all.
You’ve become a fixture in his mind.
A permanent furniture piece in the living room in his brain.
A mirror to what he once was.
Easygoing and bright, determined for more than this.
And reality will crush you under its grip. You’ll be battered and broken two years from now, jaded by the industry and unable to move forward professionally. Just like him.
The brilliant warmth that is you will die out with time, a bright bonfire dwindling down to a smoldering pile of ash. The thought is more distressing than he’d like to admit.
Clark sighs, shaking his head slowly as he rolls the ballpoint pen between his fingers. He has more important things to worry about.
His mind goes back to you. It’s dark out and his bottle of whiskey is bordering on empty. The boxy television plays some mindless advertisements. The faint music of some infomercial fills the silence of the store.
Clark’s eyes drift over to the empty space in the bedroom section, where the bed frame you sold used to sit. That aching jealousy burns in his chest again.
Who do you think you are?
Invading his job like this. Becoming so charming and kind he had no choice but to hire you, to welcome you into his life. It’s complete bullshit.
His hand clenches, the fabric of the bed comforter bunching under his hands. Tension bites at his jaw. Letting go of the comforter, Clark swipes the Jack Daniel’s bottle off of the nightstand, taking a long swig from it.
The alcohol burns going down and it feels like that burning irritation in his body is given a sensation to attach to. And then his anger shifts.
Another ad plays on the box television a few feet away. It’s another furniture store in the area. Cheaper prices for better furniture. A cute country style gimmick that appeals to most.
Clark’s scowl only grows at the sight of it. And that anger stews. He watches the man galavant in a cowboy hat and boots, touring his store with ease.
Clark remembers his attempts at that. The halfhearted hobbling around as he leaned into the pirate motif for what?
Bob’s ignorant laughter when he fell? Kat’s blasé attitude when it came to running the store? He was a man on a sinking ship and everyone knew it. And they all watched him sink further underwater.
But you never laughed. You offered him a hand, setting the chair’s back up, fixing the lighting. You showed up to each shift with a smile. Occasionally donuts or coffee depending on the time.
Fuck.
You were so nice.
You were so incredibly nice. And thoughtful.
You covered whatever shifts Kat couldn’t, brought food for everyone. You tolerated his short moods. Ignored the piling letters filled with foreclosure threats and unpaid bills. Handled emptying out boxes and assuming furniture in the basement even when it was just you and him in the store. Dealt with Bob’s flack and Kat’s nonchalance with grace, even when you clenched your jaw and bit your tongue.
He’d seen all of that and still thought he hated you. And maybe he does. He should. After all you’re seeking a degree in a growing industry. You’ll get the life he never got. You get all of that. And he should hate you for it.
Shouldn’t he?
The bottle clicks as he sets it down on the nightstand.
He needed to clear his head.
Asphalt streets crunch under the tires of Clark’s BMW. His hands grip the wheel loosely, a jacket thrown over the worn cotton of a baseball tee and sweat pants. There’s no route he’s taking. No destination in his mind.
He just needed to clear his head.
Like Dr. Kline recommended. Fresh air is good for processing things. Open windows and all that bullshit.
He turns down another street, tapping his thumb along the steering wheel. The Jack Daniels bottle sits empty in the glove compartment. Out of sight but still in his mind. That biting sting has calmed down to a gentle buzz, a low humming frequency in his head that sits with him as he continues down the street.
Eventually he stops the car, parking between a Chevy and a SUV. The air conditioning runs, cold air brushing over his face. He runs his hands over his eyes, yawning as he finally relaxes in the drivers seat.
The drive was calm.
His mind still isn’t.
There’s still that faint buzzing, like his neurons are crossed and twisted. Maybe it was the alcohol still in his system. Or maybe he was just always like this.
Clark grabs the bottle from the glove compartment, staring at the few inches of whiskey left. A half-second passes before he unscrews the cap and downs the rest of the bottle. It burns, twisting his insides and uncrossing some of the wires in his head.
His muscles loosen as he relaxes into the seat, letting his eyes drift away from the car in-front of him to the houses that fill neighborhood. Clark stops when he looks at the one house with lights on in the bedroom window.
A person stands there, distracted by something in their home. Back to the glass, shirtless and exposed. He almost turns his head away until the figure turns around.
And the sudden realization that it’s you sends chills down his spine. He shouldn’t be here. Watching you through your window like a sick voyeur. But he can’t look away. He watches, as the soft lighting of your bedroom curves over your face and skin. The soft curve of your breasts, despite the glimpse being brief as you pull a shirt over yourself.
You get closer to the window and Clark ducks out of the way. Somehow, he gets a clearer view of you, bare faced and exhausted. You grab the string, tugging the blind shuts and turning the bedroom light out.
And Clark doesn’t start his car. Instead he sits there, ruminating over what he just saw. The fact that he saw you shouldn’t change the way he feels about you. Especially when you didn’t know he was there.
Or how he even felt about you.
But that brief moment changed something. That visible exhaustion on your face. A silent cry for help. Just like him. So similar to how he lived before he bought the furniture store. After he’d gotten married and had to carry so much alone despite having a wife.
He’s never considered that maybe you’d understand that. Clark sits for a minute longer, almost waiting for you to open the blinds back up again. When you don’t, he starts the car.
It rumbles lowly as he pulls onto the street, empty whiskey bottle sitting heavy in his lap. He felt clearer than he’d felt in years. And he knew why.
Licking my screen
