You know I’m here, but you don’t admit it to yourself. You did when you were little, and—well, no. Those are the only two tenses that really matter anymore. You’ll figure out why soon enough.

I’ve always been a few feet behind you, waiting for you to notice me again. Sitting in the corner while you were in the crib as a baby, watching as your parents took turns coming in to comfort you. Standing in the aisle of the bus on your first day of school. I knew you were scared; I’ve always been a few steps ahead of you. I knew you were scared the first time you saw me, too. When you screamed for somebody—anybody—to come and save you from the person in your room.

I don’t mean to frighten. It’s not my fault I look like this. But you’re lucky you have me. Some are horribly disfigured, acid burns and car accidents. Some don’t even have heads anymore. Of course, when you’re seven and in the dark, even a slit throat is scary. And at that point, there was no way you could recognize me. Everybody always said you had your father’s chin, but seven-year-olds never understand that kind of comparison.

Looking at me now, I would definitely be recognizable. A face that you always see, save for the blood trickling down my neck.

But I wouldn’t recommend turning around and trying to look. It won’t be me you see.

That man holding the knife, don’t fight back with him. Just stay quiet and still, and he’ll only slit our throat.