CAPTCHA the flag
You flick through the photos of her on your phone again. This one maybe? You like how her hair is framed in gold by the sunlight. But it is a little out of focus... You swipe your fingers across the screen and you see her at the beach in her teeny pink bikini laughing as the waves caress her body. Breath-taking, but not quite right. You swipe again and see your fingers are leaving sweaty prints on the screen of your phone. You wipe your hands on your jeans exactly seven times then again, just so you know you're not lapsing back into one of your bad habits. You tell yourself it doesn't have to be perfect, although you want it to be, for her.
The bus judders to a stop. Someone leaves. More people get on. You push yourself against the window and pull your backpack from the floor onto your seat, hoping to deter anyone from sitting next to you.
You turn your attention back to your phone.
In this one, she is wearing a green dress, the colour of her eyes. But she is looking away from the camera so you can't see them. You swipe again. Or this one? A close up showing the splattering of freckles across her nose. No, not that one. She won't like it. She hates them, her freckles, but you could draw the shape and position of every one of them on the map of your heart.
You look at your watch again. Ten more minutes and the bus would be at her stop. Fifteen more minutes and she'd be in your arms. Twenty minutes and ... a warm rush fills your body. Its suddenness alarms you and you wait a few seconds before realising no, it isn't the beginning of a panic attack. You are just happy. Really, really happy.
She isn't the first girl you have loved, but you know, in your heart, she'll be the last. It still seems amazing that she is yours. Hard to believe some times. She understands you in a way no-one else could. She can look behind your scars and see you as you really are. Not some crazy person, crippled with self loathing from your many past failures. Not someone burdened by unbearable anxiety. You are not damaged when you are with her.
It was with her love, that you managed to first leave the house again. To be among the living again.
You allow yourself a taste of pleasure to come, and put your hand in your bag beside you. You let your fingers brush against the velvet fur. You swallow as your mouth feels dry with the thrill of what she will say when she sees it.
You flick through the pictures again until you see the photo. That one. Her eyes closed; that smile; pure bliss. You know by looking at the photo that she is thinking of you. That's the photo. The one you'll post to announce it to everyone online. That you are hers. That she is yours. Your happy ever after. You decide to post it now. Just the photo. The photo will bring you good luck.
When you go to post the photo, you see it requires a CAPTCHA code. You are almost certain that when you last posted a photo you didn't need one, but they do seem to be everywhere now. There is something unsettling to you about their strange fonts and distorted text with letters colliding into each other. This disorder and wrongness reminds you of how the world looked to you when you were at your most lost.
You also never get a CAPTCHA right the first time for some reason. You've even given up on some posts after 4 or 5 tries.
You squint at this one, trying to work out the characters.
N...O...T...4...U
NOT4U ...?
The phone wobbles in your hands and you realise they are shaking a little.
You stare at the screen. Maybe that was an A, not a 4. The more you look at it, the more convinced you become that it was indeed an A. You type in NOTAU.
"INCORRECT RESPONSE"
You try again.
The CAPTCHA has changed
SHESNOTYOURS
You feel a surge of anger.
Your fingers stab the screen:
YESSHEIS
The CAPTCHA changes.
NOTTHISTIME
You drop the phone on the floor of the bus. It slides under the seat in front of you. You look at the dirty floor and grimace as you bend to pick it up.
The CAPTCHA has changed again
URAMONSTER
A moan escapes from your mouth and people on the bus turn and look at you. You feel like curling up in a ball. You turn off your phone and put it in your bag, next to the dead kitten.
The bus judders to a stop. Her stop.
You are not surprised when the police come on to the bus. You are not surprised when they handcuff you. It's happened before. They are always watching you.
Your heart breaks as you see her standing there, at the bus stop. She's with her father. Her little hand encased in his big one.
You try to smile, to be brave for her.
She looks puzzled.
"Who is that man? Why are the police on my bus, Dad?"
Her father looks you in your eyes, as he responds to her.
"He's a monster, honey."
The bus judders to a stop. Someone leaves. More people get on. You push yourself against the window and pull your backpack from the floor onto your seat, hoping to deter anyone from sitting next to you.
You turn your attention back to your phone.
In this one, she is wearing a green dress, the colour of her eyes. But she is looking away from the camera so you can't see them. You swipe again. Or this one? A close up showing the splattering of freckles across her nose. No, not that one. She won't like it. She hates them, her freckles, but you could draw the shape and position of every one of them on the map of your heart.
You look at your watch again. Ten more minutes and the bus would be at her stop. Fifteen more minutes and she'd be in your arms. Twenty minutes and ... a warm rush fills your body. Its suddenness alarms you and you wait a few seconds before realising no, it isn't the beginning of a panic attack. You are just happy. Really, really happy.
She isn't the first girl you have loved, but you know, in your heart, she'll be the last. It still seems amazing that she is yours. Hard to believe some times. She understands you in a way no-one else could. She can look behind your scars and see you as you really are. Not some crazy person, crippled with self loathing from your many past failures. Not someone burdened by unbearable anxiety. You are not damaged when you are with her.
It was with her love, that you managed to first leave the house again. To be among the living again.
You allow yourself a taste of pleasure to come, and put your hand in your bag beside you. You let your fingers brush against the velvet fur. You swallow as your mouth feels dry with the thrill of what she will say when she sees it.
You flick through the pictures again until you see the photo. That one. Her eyes closed; that smile; pure bliss. You know by looking at the photo that she is thinking of you. That's the photo. The one you'll post to announce it to everyone online. That you are hers. That she is yours. Your happy ever after. You decide to post it now. Just the photo. The photo will bring you good luck.
When you go to post the photo, you see it requires a CAPTCHA code. You are almost certain that when you last posted a photo you didn't need one, but they do seem to be everywhere now. There is something unsettling to you about their strange fonts and distorted text with letters colliding into each other. This disorder and wrongness reminds you of how the world looked to you when you were at your most lost.
You also never get a CAPTCHA right the first time for some reason. You've even given up on some posts after 4 or 5 tries.
You squint at this one, trying to work out the characters.
N...O...T...4...U
NOT4U ...?
The phone wobbles in your hands and you realise they are shaking a little.
You stare at the screen. Maybe that was an A, not a 4. The more you look at it, the more convinced you become that it was indeed an A. You type in NOTAU.
"INCORRECT RESPONSE"
You try again.
The CAPTCHA has changed
SHESNOTYOURS
You feel a surge of anger.
Your fingers stab the screen:
YESSHEIS
The CAPTCHA changes.
NOTTHISTIME
You drop the phone on the floor of the bus. It slides under the seat in front of you. You look at the dirty floor and grimace as you bend to pick it up.
The CAPTCHA has changed again
URAMONSTER
A moan escapes from your mouth and people on the bus turn and look at you. You feel like curling up in a ball. You turn off your phone and put it in your bag, next to the dead kitten.
The bus judders to a stop. Her stop.
You are not surprised when the police come on to the bus. You are not surprised when they handcuff you. It's happened before. They are always watching you.
Your heart breaks as you see her standing there, at the bus stop. She's with her father. Her little hand encased in his big one.
You try to smile, to be brave for her.
She looks puzzled.
"Who is that man? Why are the police on my bus, Dad?"
Her father looks you in your eyes, as he responds to her.
"He's a monster, honey."