“I’m watching you again.”
A middle-aged man paces frantically in a darkened room, sweat droplets beading his brow. His eyes are riveted to the floor.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you? A stupid question, really. You’d never hide such things from me.”
The man begins to tug roughly at his shirt collar, fingers fumbling at the buttons that are suddenly too tight. He is panicking and can’t breathe; the air convulses from his lungs in ragged gasps.
“Are you just going to ignore me when I’m speaking to you? Look, now that you’ve stopped. I’m over here, by the wall.”
He jerks his head upward, noticing a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Rigid with fear, he expects their condemning faces to be there in the doorway, waiting to take him… But they haven’t come yet. The dark shape leaning by the exit is a harmless nobody. A sickly smile possesses his mouth.
“I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to worry about me talking. I’ll keep your filthy secrets. I always have...”

It all began that day in the office, a day like any other that had gone before it for countless weeks. We sat together in a labyrinth of cubicles where every other occupant was as bland and faceless as the next, conditioned to this repressive neccessity, the world of work. I recall how he fed the required codes into the system, his fingers gliding quick and sure over the keys, efficient as always. My own conveyed a vagueness of movement, the very impression of a man engrossed in his task, yet I had no need of concentration. It had always been accepted between the two of us that he was the smarter one, always dependable, always present. It was him that, after three years of dedicated service, had been promised the position of senior manager as soon as the paper work had cleared.
The cubicle we shared was lit by yellow lamp-light. It’s funny, the things you remember. The side of his face visible to me was masked in darkness yet still I could determine his distracted frown.
“So Evans got the job eh?” A gruff voice filtered through the wall. “Senior manager…”
“Yeah,” another confirmed. “And he hasn’t even been here a week.”

That night I joined them both for dinner, himself and his wife. Afterwards, I wished I hadn’t. I was embarrassed for him. I wanted him to hear the words he said to her, to feel how he made her feel – a woman beaten down by a loutish husband engrossed in his own self-pity – and yet I said nothing. She would not look to me for comfort. No one ever did. They knew I would always move in accordance with him, even when it wasn’t right. Sadly, I wasn’t capable of doing anything else. I’ve never had a mind of my own.

I was with him from the beginning or at least as far back as either of us can remember. As childhood friends we were always so close and he never took me for granted and now? Ha. Now he barely acknowledges me.
I suppose you’re asking why I’ve stayed all this time. The simple truth is that I’ve had no choice. It’s not like I could have left him to his own devices, to lead his sorry existence alone. I’ve always had to be here, to suffer as he has suffered. Now he simply expects it. He tows me around as an extension of himself, an extra limb. Yet despite his flaws, his at times intolerable presence, I’ve always remained close.
Not that he appreciates it. Rarely will he confide in me anymore. Perhaps if he had spoken those words to me aloud he would have seen how foolish his intentions were. Maybe then he would have had the strength to stop himself before it was too late to turn back.

The time came sooner rather than later, an event that I, the third party, had been anticipating for longer than he had; that night we returned home early from the local bar, his waning trust in his wife having finally expired.
We found her there in the arms of her lover, a Mr. Evans by name, the self-same Mr. Evans who had secured the title of senior manager promised to him by his superiors. I could feel the rage emanating from him as I stood by his side against the door jam and could guess at his intent; after all, I had known him since the beginning.
When Evans left, his wife went with him, and he sat in the lengthening shadows of the bedroom. I remained by his side, the ever-present, tactfully silent companion.

He didn’t go to work the following day, the following week. In fact, he stopped going altogether. To say I knew what he was thinking then in those precise moments, his steely gaze focused on the opposite wall, would be a lie, yet I felt confident that I could predict the outcome of this conniving with perfect accuracy.
Eventually he arose from his place by the wall and stepped outside into the rain, into the night. Predictably, I followed. I drifted along in his wake until we neared the first of a long line of street lamps, their pallid glow tracing hazy circles of light on the glistening path. I strengthened as we neared the light and quickened my pace to travel by his side, only to retreat once more into darkness when his expression remained set, determined. I could feel myself pale as we abandoned the path and merged with the surrounding shadows. I lost my identity to the night. Here I waited, unnoticed, while he slowed to a halt. A modern, red-brick house loomed before us, humble abode of Mr. Evans.

The back door wasn’t locked when he tried it and gaining entry proved easier than he had expected. The house was quiet while I followed him upstairs. Not a creak arose from the newly-laid timbers of the suburban home as we ascended; his footsteps ahead of me were steady and hushed.
The light from the second level was bright in comparison with the rest of the house and he faltered on the final step of the stairway, the sleek barrel of his hand gun held down by his side. He appeared to be losing his nerve.
I entered the bedroom first. The door swung smoothly back on its hinges without a sound as his wife stirred restlessly in the bed. She saw me, a perfect silhouette in the light from the landing. Her husband crossed the threshold of the room behind me, pistol raised…

This is what years of careful observation have granted me. The ability to see farther into the human psyche than the eye allows, past the physical boundaries of body language and facial expression.
I do not pretend to understand the workings of the human mind. That is beyond my scope of simple reasoning. Rather I could sense what he was about to do by lingering in his wake and by his side, by mimicking his movements, by becoming an extension of his very life as I lived my own.
Sometimes to truly understand a person one must adopt their tendencies entirely, become as they are, another limb. My world, my entire existence, revolves around him. Without him, I would never be.

Now I am watching him, the shivering wreck that he is, watching him from my post against the wall. “What have I done?” He whispers into the empty air.
After all these years, he speaks to me again. I’m his only friend, the only one he can trust. I have been with him through it all, seen what he has seen and just as I cannot escape him, he will always be bound to me.
There is no need for further words. He knows the sin of humanity that he has committed. Doubtless he will leave some evidence behind him, in the foolish way of humans, something to condemn us both. If it had been me however, if I had somehow broken away from him to perform this act, it would have been a flawless endeavor, for who can ever tell when darkness has been and gone? It’s a simple, insentient shadow that is speaking to you after all. Who would ever suspect it?