Watching Me, Watching You by David Elliott

He’d seen all of Jenny Frankincense’s movies, owned every DVD of every TV show, had read every biography of her ever published. Now he was watching her again, and this performance wouldn’t end after ninety minutes.

From his den in the bushes, he could see every window in the house, and Jenny, thank God, wasn’t one for drawing the curtains. He’d once read that she was mildly claustrophobic, but who could have foreseen that this condition would work to his advantage?

Brian was finally happy. He could watch, and watch, and watch …

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Jenny was obsessed with Reality TV. She’d always hated acting, had fallen into the career accidentally, and now, with retirement, could dedicate herself full-time to watching trash. Her favourite, at the moment, was Hollywood Retirement Home, a reality show in which a man she’d once loved — an unrequited love — was one of the stars. The show broadcast twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Jenny hadn’t seen Oliver for many years but had never stopped thinking about him, imagining what it might be like to be with him, to touch him, to watch him sleep. Now she finally knew. She could watch him sleep, every night.

She could watch, and watch, and watch …

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Oliver often wondered why he’d ever signed up for the show. Hollywood Retirement Home: bunch of has-been elderly celebrities, sitting around waiting for death. Who, in their right mind, would want to watch this? There was one advantage, however: Sarah, the producer. What a beautiful woman. Far more attractive than any of the actresses he’d ever encountered. Oliver could watch her all day, every day, in the guise of a near catatonic geriatric. He was still a fine actor, and the character was hardly a challenge.       In the evening and on weekends, there was Twitter and Facebook. He could follow her life online, look at her photos, watch her videos.

He could watch, and watch, and watch …

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During the day, Sarah worked on Hollywood Retirement Home, but during the evening, she worked on her other project. Sleep was no longer an issue. Work had become an obsession. Reality TV was her master, and Sarah could easily survive on just two hours of sleep a night. She was hoping that Stalking the Stalkers, her new reality format, would be as successful as HRH, but if it wasn’t, that was fairly irrelevant. She loved the work, she loved the format, and she loved Brian, the unwitting subject of the show. They’d been following him for days now, without his knowledge, and Sarah found herself becoming more and more enchanted.

They had so much in common.

She loved to watch Brian. She could watch, and watch, and watch …

© 2013 David Elliott

David Elliott is a writer and musician, living in Cheshire, UK. His short fiction has been published, or scheduled for publication, by a variety of magazines, including The Rusty Nail, Danse Macabre, Eunoia Review, Twisted Tongue, Linguistic Erosion, The Horror Zine, Down in the Dirt, Flashes in the Dark, MicroHorror, and Delivered.

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