getting ready to run away. It said the words out loud but couldn’t get the conviction-muscles of my larynx to back it up. The warning ended up sounding like a question.
The stalker, meanwhile, stepped into the road. Didn’t even check for traffic. There wasn’t any, but something told me this was lucky for traffic rather than the stalker. A distant streetlight caught his face for a second and I could see his gaze locking onto me with fierce intensity.
He reached the curb.
“Better not come any closer,” I warned. “You don’t want to mess with me, man. You really don’t…”
I must’ve been getting nervous. I must’ve been trying to bluff my way out. Shock and fearful curiosity, however, kept me transfixed. The paralyzing emotions intensified at the sight of the stalker stepping right into the giant rosebushes that separated us.
I could hear his jacket rip, his jeans getting shredded. I could see needle sharp thorns slice deep, red lines across his face.
He didn’t even flinch.
Blog entry: At about a thumbnail’s distance from my face, he stopped. I could now easily make out what was wrong with his features; his nose was too long and was slightly bent, his eyebrows were dyed different colors, and a ragged old scar ran down his temple. Separately, these features would make anybody worthy of pity. Together, they created an oddly fearsome appearance. And combined with a menacingly cold stare and a single thorn still piercing his skin just below his eye, it completely justified my discomfort.
“So you’re the guy…” he said. “You’re the rat bastard who’s been stalking my girl!”
His voice was cold. The kind of cold you’d associate with the ability to rip people apart with bare hands, just to have something to do.
“At least I had her permission,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level.
His expression grew colder.
“I wasn’t actually stalking any girl,” I continued, wanting to keep the misguided notion that Dr. Hargrove was in any way related to the concept of ‘his girl’, out of the discussion. “I was stalking you . I’m Dr. Hargrove’s stalker-stalker. I have her permission to stalk her stalker!”
I decided it was time to stop talking. The more I said, the more the stalker seemed to make up his mind to hurt me now rather than later.
“You don’t know her,” he growled. “You have no idea what she’s capable of, what kind of research she’s involved in.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.” I tried to look smug, pressing my shoulders back, lifting my head. “I know all about that. I’m part of the trial, as it happens.”
The stalker inched up an eyebrow. “Really…” he said. “And do you also know she’s already killed one of her test subjects?” He gazed back at the house, took another slow drag of his cigarette. “I’m not stalking her,” he said, “I’m gathering evidence. She’ll keep on killing until she gets the results she needs for that big company of hers. She’ll make it all look like harmless little accidents. Every last one of you if needed.” He shook his head, dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. “That woman’s got to be stopped,” he said. He turned his gaze back on me. “And I’m gonna be the one to stop her.”
Blog entry: He was feeding me a story of course. He had to be, he was the bad guy after all. You didn’t expect the bad guy to just come clean and tell you what he was up to. That’d make no sense. So I paid no attention to his words, even though they sounded convincing, played to my worst fears, and explained away many of my questions about the trial.
I told him, “You’d better get out of here!” Then, when he failed to move, I added, “I called the police just before you came over. They should be here any minute.” I held up my cell as proof of the call I’d been too naïve to make. “Go! Before they throw you in jail!”
Those were the perfect words. Exactly what’d scare him away. It was
The stalker, meanwhile, stepped into the road. Didn’t even check for traffic. There wasn’t any, but something told me this was lucky for traffic rather than the stalker. A distant streetlight caught his face for a second and I could see his gaze locking onto me with fierce intensity.
He reached the curb.
“Better not come any closer,” I warned. “You don’t want to mess with me, man. You really don’t…”
I must’ve been getting nervous. I must’ve been trying to bluff my way out. Shock and fearful curiosity, however, kept me transfixed. The paralyzing emotions intensified at the sight of the stalker stepping right into the giant rosebushes that separated us.
I could hear his jacket rip, his jeans getting shredded. I could see needle sharp thorns slice deep, red lines across his face.
He didn’t even flinch.
Blog entry: At about a thumbnail’s distance from my face, he stopped. I could now easily make out what was wrong with his features; his nose was too long and was slightly bent, his eyebrows were dyed different colors, and a ragged old scar ran down his temple. Separately, these features would make anybody worthy of pity. Together, they created an oddly fearsome appearance. And combined with a menacingly cold stare and a single thorn still piercing his skin just below his eye, it completely justified my discomfort.
“So you’re the guy…” he said. “You’re the rat bastard who’s been stalking my girl!”
His voice was cold. The kind of cold you’d associate with the ability to rip people apart with bare hands, just to have something to do.
“At least I had her permission,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level.
His expression grew colder.
“I wasn’t actually stalking any girl,” I continued, wanting to keep the misguided notion that Dr. Hargrove was in any way related to the concept of ‘his girl’, out of the discussion. “I was stalking you . I’m Dr. Hargrove’s stalker-stalker. I have her permission to stalk her stalker!”
I decided it was time to stop talking. The more I said, the more the stalker seemed to make up his mind to hurt me now rather than later.
“You don’t know her,” he growled. “You have no idea what she’s capable of, what kind of research she’s involved in.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.” I tried to look smug, pressing my shoulders back, lifting my head. “I know all about that. I’m part of the trial, as it happens.”
The stalker inched up an eyebrow. “Really…” he said. “And do you also know she’s already killed one of her test subjects?” He gazed back at the house, took another slow drag of his cigarette. “I’m not stalking her,” he said, “I’m gathering evidence. She’ll keep on killing until she gets the results she needs for that big company of hers. She’ll make it all look like harmless little accidents. Every last one of you if needed.” He shook his head, dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. “That woman’s got to be stopped,” he said. He turned his gaze back on me. “And I’m gonna be the one to stop her.”
Blog entry: He was feeding me a story of course. He had to be, he was the bad guy after all. You didn’t expect the bad guy to just come clean and tell you what he was up to. That’d make no sense. So I paid no attention to his words, even though they sounded convincing, played to my worst fears, and explained away many of my questions about the trial.
I told him, “You’d better get out of here!” Then, when he failed to move, I added, “I called the police just before you came over. They should be here any minute.” I held up my cell as proof of the call I’d been too naïve to make. “Go! Before they throw you in jail!”
Those were the perfect words. Exactly what’d scare him away. It was
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