Eyewitness

CW: Themes of substance abuse, loss by miscarriage, mental health struggles and suicide

“I’m pregnant.”

The words seemed to involuntarily slip from Dani’s mouth, like she didn’t actually intend on telling me that. Like it was all just a mistake. Her voice was weirdly void of emotion, neither happy nor sad.

She was probably in too much shock. Was she happy? Upset? Did she even know yet?

I’d been dating Dani for a few months during my junior year at OSU. It started pretty casually, and then things got slightly more serious - but never too serious. There was never any talk of marriage or a family or anything like that after college. She was fine for the time being. A solid college girlfriend.

But holy shit… pregnant?

“What should we do?” she asked, still very much in shock. She had no answers herself, and was clearly eager to toss this hot potato over to me.

“I don’t know.” I really didn’t. Shit.

Eventually reality set in. We talked it over from different angles over the next couple weeks. There was some panic. Tears. Hugging. Each of us took turns being the strong one. Each of us got our chance to properly freak out.

Abortion was mentioned. Neither of us wanted that. We talked about adoption. Maybe? Neither of us wanted to do a shotgun wedding and “stay together for the kid”. Truth be told, I guess we didn’t like each other too much. And honestly, this whole issue kind of killed the romance between us. Within a few weeks, we were operating more as friends than lovers. Just a classic case of friends having a baby together.

Ultimately… none of this mattered.

Dani had a miscarriage 11 weeks in.

Shortly after, we broke up. College went on. Life went on.

For a while at least.

—

Thirteen months later I was in a job interview when I first saw it.

Saw HIM, I guess.

I was fielding a question about my biggest weakness when I saw something out of the corner of my right eye. At first I figured it was just an eyelash or piece of dust or something. Or maybe I had a migraine coming on and I was getting some sort of coronavision. That had happened to me before from time to time.

Nah. None of those. I tried to ignore it as best I could, but that proved difficult. Whatever it was, it was moving. Odd. It was pretty damn distracting. Of course, I bombed the interview.

As I sat in my car, I tried to focus on whatever this was in the corner of my eye. Being tucked away back there, it was initially hard to make out. But eventually it came more into focus.

This sounds pretty nuts, but I think it was a baby. A little infant, thrashing around. Crying inaudibly. It was clearly upset, with no one coming to help it.

This was really freaking weird.

Hoping to make this go away, I took some Tylenol. Nothing. Later I had a few drinks. Nada.

The baby remained there, just chilling in the corner of my eye, for days. Just thrashing and silently crying. No one ever came to help the kid - I mean, who could?

Was I supposed to do something? Could I help the baby somehow?

And just like that, it was gone.

—

The kid showed up again a couple years later. I was at a work picnic. I’d gotten a job in marketing for a small PR firm, and we had a little summer thing at a nearby park. I was playing our HR manager in Cornhole, nursing a beer, when I saw something again.

Again it was in the corner of my right eye. Again it was a young child, but this time it was a toddler. It seemed to be a young boy, reaching out towards me. Grasping into the air for something. For comfort perhaps? For help?

Again it threw me for a loop, and I eventually lost the game. I got another beer, which did nothing. I decided to go for a walk into the woods, where I could settle my head a bit.

Was this due to stress? Was I having some sort of episode? Panic attack? Quarter life crisis?

What the hell was going on?

I decided to seek help. I found a therapist and made an appointment as soon as I could.

So I found myself in Saul’s office, admitting to a complete stranger that I was seeing a toddler out of the corner of my eye. And that this wasn’t the first time I saw this kid. And that he seemed to need my help. Of course, I had absolutely no idea how I could possibly help this kid.

“Do you recognize the child?” he asked. To Saul’s credit, he didn’t immediately have me admitted. He even seemed to believe me.

“No… I really don’t know many kids. I’m an only child, don’t have any kids of my own, and no nieces or nephews. And none of my friends have kids yet. It’s safe to say I’ve never seen this boy before.”

“Is it possible your brain is projecting an image of your younger self? Did you have a traumatic childhood in any way?”

I considered this. No. No. I actually had a great childhood. I never found myself needing anything. We had money, we were comfortable. I had plenty of love and affection. My parents did a great job. Sure, no one’s childhood is perfect, but generally I had a really good upbringing.

Later I pulled out some old photos of me when I was a toddler. It was hard to tell - again, I was viewing the kid from just the corner of my eye - and while he sort of resembled me, it didn’t seem to be me. Toddler me had curly hair. He did not. My hair seemed lighter. My face was rounder.

I tried something new - talking to the kid. I asked him all sorts of questions - his name, how old he was, what was wrong. No answers, not surprisingly. Just frantic grasping.

I got pretty hammered that night.

The grasping seemed even more frenetic when I was hung over the next morning.

Then, a few days later… he was gone again.

—

I’d love to say life just went on, but even after the kid left the second time, this stuck with me. It was CONSTANTLY on my mind - when would this boy return? Years passed. I continued with therapy. I worked some jobs, never really sinking my teeth into anything. I dated a few girls, but nothing progressed. I don’t know if I should completely blame this kid, this illusion, but it certainly played a part.

Then on my 30th birthday, he returned. I was out to dinner with my parents, enjoying a complementary slice of chocolate cake.

This time the boy was about middle school aged, in a soccer jersey. I don’t even like soccer. Never played it as a kid. It definitely wasn’t Young Me.

My appetite suddenly gone, I made an excuse and made my way home. As usual, alcohol didn’t do anything, but I took a shot of whiskey anyway. I sat at my desk and closed my eyes. The funny thing about these visions is they never fully went away when I shut my eyes. As you may expect, that made sleeping challenging. But with my eyes tightly shut, I focused hard on the boy.

He was probably about ten. Again, in his soccer jersey, green and yellow. Jersey number four. He wasn’t crying this time, or reaching out to me. Instead, he had his arms tightly folded across his chest, like he was angry. Or disappointed in me.

I opened my eyes and he was still there, standing there just pouting in the corner of my eye. I studied his face as best I could. His lips were tightly pursed, with no smile. His eyes were focused on me.

There was something in his eyes. They reminded me of someone.

Dani.

A thought suddenly entered my mind… the miscarriage. Could this boy… could I be seeing the son I never had?

I needed to talk to her. Was she having these same visions?

I searched my phone, but no longer had her number. I tried Facebook. She had an account, but it hadn’t been updated in years. Same for Instagram. And LinkedIn. Twitter too.

I sent her a DM, opting for Instagram. I asked if we could meet.

Was I alone in this? Was the boy’s mother seeing him too?

—

It took a few days, but Dani responded to my message. She was still in town, so we met for coffee.

Worried about sounding completely freaking insane, I didn’t ask her about the boy over messenger. I wanted to do so in person.

I got to the coffee shop first and got a seat. As she walked in, I could tell she wasn’t particularly happy to see me. We didn’t have a nasty breakup or anything, but after the pregnancy scare it was painfully apparent we weren’t compatible. We each went our separate ways and never talked again until that day.

We made small talk for a few minutes, and she repeatedly checked her phone. She was clearly eager to get this rendezvous over with. Eventually, I just asked the question.

“Hey… do you ever see our kid?”

She looked at me like I had three heads.

“Uhh… what do you mean?”

“Our child. Our unborn child. You know… that… passed? Do you ever see him? Just glimpses of him? In the corner of your eye?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Apparently the answer was an emphatic NO. Well, I guess I was just special. Goody. Lucky me.

“Never mind. Must be stress. Sometimes I feel like my brain’s playing tricks on me.”

The conversation quickly ended after that. I picked up the tab, and we went our separate ways. Forever this time.

It’s worth noting that during this entire conversation, the boy remained steadfast in the corner of my eye. But instead of folding his arms over his chest, he extended both arms towards me. And with each hand, he gave me the finger.

—

The pattern continued for years after that. My life continued to go nowhere. Job hopping. No serious relationships. No meaningful friendships either. Worried parents. Hours talking with Saul the therapist. This kid, whether he was there or not, haunted me. I couldn’t escape him. I knew he’d always be back to torment me.

And he always did come back. As a troubled teen, with dingy long hair carrying spray cans. At one point hands cuffed behind his back. With a crackpipe. Heroine needles. Things just seemed to get worse and worse for him. Which made me feel worse and worse.

I wanted to help him - to help myself truthfully - but there was no way to do so. Nothing I tried worked. I just continued to stumble my way through my shitty life, forever haunted by the son I never had.

I was 44 and at a football game the last time I saw “Junior”. I was sitting with some friends, enjoying a beer and some nachos. The glimmer of a man showed up in that familiar corner of my right eye.

I sighed. What now? This was so exhausting.

Something was different. He was more tense. Menacing. My son was staring me down, with pure hatred in his eyes.

He raised his left hand. Again he gave me the finger. I’d seen that a lot over the years. My son clearly did not like me.

But then he raised his right hand as well. In his hand was a small pistol. He aimed it at me.

By now I was sweating. My friends, completely oblivious, continued to watch the game.

Junior was shouting something incomprehensible. He continued to point his gun at me.

I panicked. Was I in danger? Could he actually hurt me? I’d never been able to interact with him, to communicate with him or help him. Was this a two-way street? Could he impact my life in any way?

He pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

I still couldn’t hear it, but I saw him scream in a fit of rage. Junior was obviously frustrated.

Holy shit he wanted to kill me.

What had I done to this young man to deserve that? I did my part in creating him. I’d even planned on raising him if it came to that. But he died before that could happen. Nothing I did led to that.

Why did my son hate me so much? Why was he so disturbed? So angry?

I didn’t have too much time to dwell on these questions. Because after he stopped his silent screaming, he turned the gun on himself.

I didn’t hear the gunshot, but I saw his body drop down to the ground. I saw the blood. I saw no more movement.

I must have screamed or something, because my friends were now looking at me. Apparently I was crying. Shaking in my seat.

What had I just witnessed? Was my son now truly dead?

A moment later, the body faded away. Into the darkness of my mind.

That was the last I ever saw of my unborn son.