Too scared to look back, I walk faster, picking up speed by the second.
When I can no longer bear it, I break into a run.
My Converse pair work overtime on the cement pavement, way past their worn out rubber soles' threshold. My phone is held tight in my hand, and my hair flutters side to side, as I start panting from the sprint. My heart feels like it's going to give up any second. I don't stop, though. My destination is not far.
I hurry inside the house and slam shut the door behind me. I run to the kitchen, grab the jar of salt, and go back and pour it generously across the doorway.
Then I wait.
Two seconds.
Four seconds.
Six seconds.
"What are you doing?"
I drop the jar and turn around.
Chris is looking at me from the living room couch like I've gone crazy. I didn't know someone was in the house.
"Nothing," I quickly say, blinking my still wide eyes.
"That's not nothing."
I look down at the scattered salt and broken pieces of the jar. I turn around and open the door slowly, and peek outside.
Whatever was following me, it's not there anymore.
I close back the door, and turn to Chris. Leaned back on the couch, he's looking at me doubtfully. His backpack is on the coffee table, next to a couple of crushed energy drink cans. What is he doing here at this time? He doesn't return home this soon from school.
"I saw a colony of ants right outside. A train of them was crawling inside through the bottom of the door."
"Really? I didn't see any bugs crawling in through the door when I came in."
"You didn't look on the ground. They are there now," I say. I don't think a guy who walks with his chest out and eyes looking straight ahead, as a pompous next-in-line Alpha, ever looks down and admires the view of the dirt ground.
He puts down the can in his hand on the table, gets up, and comes over. In a frantic, I go block his way, before he could come near the front door and see for himself there's nothing on the floor.
"What are you doing?" he asks, frowning and crossing his arms. His crossed arms causes his biceps to bulge, distracting me for a second, and giving me a possible escape.
"You look very handsome today," I say, trying my luck at a change of topic that focuses on his vanity rather than my insanity. I am not lying, though. He is very handsome today, like he was very handsome yesterday, and will be very handsome tomorrow, too.
His frown doesn't go away, and his arms are still crossed. His lips are pressed tight.
But I see his eyes smile.
I smile at him.
His lips start to stretch. But he stops. Shakes his head, and narrows his eyes before he sidesteps, trying to maneuver around me to reach the front door.
As if my subconscious was expecting this, my feet move to the side in sync with his. I block him again.
After one last glare at me, he grabs my upper arms, sending A-rated sensations throughout my body, lifts me, and drops me at his side, like he was scoring a plushy from an arcade claw machine. His touch, in addition to my momentary suspension in air, throws me off guard and before I know it he's at the front door.
