Stalker // DNF

1: Anonymity

Why? Why these specific people? George wonders, frustration causing him to miss a step and he quickly shuffles his feet to stifle a fall. His thoughts are running faster than his brain can handle, consequently he feels the first symptoms of a headache forming near his temple.

He'd walked down this curved street many times, the street containing the housing of the 5 victims. It was simply an ordinary street on the outskirts of London. It wasn't the cleanest or safest of streets, but nothing special jumped out about it. The neighborhood mainly consisted of small apartment buildings clutching each other in close proximity. Small murals of graffiti coated some walls and doors, and petite gardens nestled to the side or behind these homes.

George kicks a piece of littered paper on the street while tutting, thinking back to the file in his office which his eyes had been glued to all day. Their statements, the weak proof, how no more victims had been taken. Just the original 5, who had confessed the stalking had stopped in the past few weeks, since the case had slid across George's desk.

George, as the head of the cybercrime investigation unit, had been given the case of this cyber-stalker weeks ago. There were flimsy connections, but it was obvious the victims' webcams and microphones had been hacked into, all using the same technique, so it was inferred it was the same criminal each time.

George and a small team had been following protocol, collecting statements and as much evidence as was available, but nothing new had arised since they had started investigating the crime, exasperating and plaguing his mind.

He was running out of leads and hope, and it's clear his teammates were ready to mark the case as unsolved and move on to the next. George was reaching that point as well, fed up of clutching straws that led him back to this standstill position.

He continues down the street and walks through the park to reach his own apartment. It's a slightly more cosy neighborhood, mainly thanks to the school that is placed down the street. The streetlamps and bright greenery welcome him home as he tramples to his flat.

Once the door is unlocked he empties the contents of his pockets onto the kitchen counter and throws himself onto the chair in front of his computer. He powers it on and crosses his legs on the seat, knowing he should probably eat. But the thought alone of having to conjure up the energy to cook something after exhausting himself in work is draining and far more effort than he's able to give.

George tries to relax his spine into the chair and rocks his head back to shut his eyes for a second. The excitement of his job is the reason he pursues, but he finds he can never truly switch off. Shown currently by him sitting, his mind swimming in worry for the victims and a feeling deep in his stomach that they aren't truly safe. Why would their stalker have just stopped pursuing them suddenly? What did he actually want from them? Not even closed eyelids and a detachment from the office can prevent his fret, his work is slowly becoming his life.

His eyelids rip open at the vibration of his phone rattling on the desk. He leans forward, his heart racing a little at the sudden sound and interruption.

His Mum's smiling face lights up the screen and George swipes to accept the call.

'Hi Mum,' George smiles, nestling the phone between his cheek and his shoulder so he can enter his password on his, now powered on, computer.

'Hi darling, how are you?' His Mum's warm voice floods his eardrums. He can hear the faint sound of a sizzling pan and the gentle oven fan from her end, causing his stomach to growl faintly at the thought of a home-cooked meal.

'Not too bad, just a little tired after a long day of work,' George sighs, grabbing his phone back into his hand once the password has been entered. 'I can't really be bothered to cook so I might just order Dominoes or something.' He taps his fingers on the desk, knowing he's ordered food from the pizza chain almost four nights in a row now and should absolutely not do it again.

'Oh dear... well make sure to rest plenty tonight.'

'Of course,' George replies, knowing fully well his restless mind won't allow him more than a couple hours sleep at most. 'How are you, how was your day?'

'Pretty good, sweetheart. Dad and I went to China Town to grab some lunch,' his Mum says, he hears the quiet scraping of a spoon against a pan, probably stirring its contents. 'Oh! When we were walking back to the tube, we saw one of Dream's paintings!'

George sits taller in his chair at the mention of the artist. 'Really? That's awesome! What was it of?'

'It was quite chaotic actually, a bit different from the usual style. It had lots of condiment bottles, like ketchup and stuff, tipped and forming a colourful trail. Then there was... was it a slice of pizza? Yes, I think a slice of pizza laying in amidst of the colours.'

'Oh,' George replies with an eyebrow raised. 'Not very suited for China Town then?'

'Well it wasn't in China Town, it was more central.'

His Mum's voice soothes his tired mind as George and his Mum catch up a little more and he turns on his video game while they chat. Once they say their goodbyes, he dials the number of Dominoes and continues his streak of ordering pepperoni with olives and a stuffed crust.

'That's funny,' the man taking his order mutters, his voice quiet over the muffle over the phone and loud chatter from his background.

'Sorry?'

'No, nothing. It's just we've had a lot of that order tonight because of the painting.'

George furrows his eyebrows and pauses to try to understand, before he repeats, 'sorry?'

'Dream's painting? The new one of the pizza?'

'Yeah... what about it?' George asks, confused and recalling his Mum's sighting of this graffiti.

'Well it's a painting of a pepperoni and olives pizza, I guess it kinda looks like it could have a stuffed crust?' The man explains. 'Obviously it's a bit of an unusual order, but since people have seen the painting we've had a lot more orders of it... It's just funny, that's all.'

'Oh,' George utters, unsure of how to reply. He hadn't tried to hop on the bandwagon, just simply ordered his usual.

'Anyways, it'll be there in about 15 minutes.'

'Okay, thank you,' George says, hanging up and placing his phone back on the desk.

He leans back in his chair and lets his mind drift to the painter; Dream was a pretty famous artist in London. He was anonymous as no one had seen him painting, only the final artwork. He had quite a few pieces, most being random stuff, for example this recent pizza one. His consistency, anonymity and talent had all contributed to his rise in fame, a collage of his paintings was often found displayed on the Piccadilly screens for tourists to see.

George had once been very curious of who the mysterious man was and often walked around the paintings to admire and investigate them. But after a couple times he'd seen all he wanted to observe and his new job at the police occupied a lot of his previous free time.

He now closes his video game and replaces it with a browser and googles this new painting. Instantly, results and headlines pop up. His Mum was right, the painting was just outside of China Town and had first been spotted this morning. He clicks on the image to get a closer look.

His Mum's description was perfectly accurate as he glimpses at the painting of the food that was scheduled to arrive at his door any minute. It was such a strange thing to draw, yet it still looked presentable. The muted colours bled together and the dropping slice of pizza perched, somwhat delicately, on the miscoloured rainbow.

George's eyes subconsciously drag to the bottom corner of the graffiti. Sure enough, there lays the signature in a messy scrawl, identical to hundreds of previous paintings:

Dream