Act 1 | Scenes

Scene 3 | A Present

My fingers tremble, and my feet threaten to give way under me.

I push the button faster, but the pictures keep coming. Pictures of me walking at the park last week, pictures of me laughing with my friends when I went skiing last month, pictures of me running in my neighborhood marathon last year, pictures of me crying at my graduation... two years ago.

Pictures of me jogging—yesterday. Pictures of me picking up the newspaper from outside my door, this morning.

I turn around and scan the area. The store is empty, save for the little girl who sits in the corner reading everyday while her mother mans the counter. She looks up, smiles, and goes back to her book.

I don't smile back.

I want to leave the camera here and run, possibly to another continent, but I can't. I touched it, and who knows what kind of a pervert is following me.

I grab it by the strap and hurry out of the bookstore. The streets are bustling with people. A man with a beanie leans against a streetlight, the blue glow from his phone illuminating his sunken features. I shudder and walk past him. A woman wearing a trench coat and sunglasses walks closely behind me, and when I turn around she's entering a small bakery. She might be pretending to—

This is getting ridiculous, I scoff at myself. Surely whoever did it would have hidden themselves well enough. I can't suspect every passer-by.

I quicken my pace and hurry to the subway station. I'm right on time, the train leaving seconds after I board it. The camera is still in my hands, and I can see my reflection in the black screen. 

The old woman to my right shifts in place, her intimidating tattoos rippling on her forearms. The boy to my left looks no more than 15, and he's nodding off, his head tilting dangerously close to my shoulder. I squeeze in my churning stomach and try to make myself as small as possible.

Once I get off the train, the walk home is uncomfortably silent; I usually listen to some music with my earphones, but I'm scared to do it now. 

When I'm in front of my door, I realize the stalker knows where I live. I can't enter my own house. 

Where do I go?

So I turn around and go back to the street, wandering aimlessly until I can think up something to get out of this situation. I fiddle with the camera in my hands. Should I just remove the memory card and smash it to bits? Or should I hand it over to the police? I can't even get a restriction order because I don't know who's stalking me. 

The sun has nearly set, and I realize I've reached the park. Small droplets of water start to fall, and after a quick rummaging through my bag I determine I've forgotten my umbrella at my—the house.

The playground has a roof over the slide, and I climb up and sit down under it. The sun has set by then, and it's just me and the cold rain in the night. I pull my arms around myself in an attempt to keep warm and lean my head against the plastic. I close my eyes, the stress getting to me; and I fall asleep.

The rain stops, and the sudden silence wakes me up. Rubbing my eyes, I check the time on my phone. It reads 00:06. 

I have nothing else to do, and I look up, 'What to do when someone is stalking you'. Hey, I'm desperate.

I go down the rabbit hole of related incidents and when I'm done thirty minutes later, I'm more terrified than when I started. But now I have an idea of what not to do.

I'm calmer now, and I gather my thoughts. First, I should probably report this and tell my friends about it. I have evidence, and about two years' worth should do it. I'll also have to move out or add more security to the doors of the house.

I steel myself and dial in my closest friend, Andrea's number and press call. It rings for a long minute. When it finally goes through, I can hear some shuffling.

Andrea's voice comes on first, but she's screaming, "Disconnect! Cut the goddamn call, Casey!" and I pull the phone away from my ear.

"What's wrong?" There's no response, but more shuffling. "Andrea?" I prompt, stupid as I am, not listening to her.

"You have a stalker, ri—" she starts, but another voice cuts in. It's raspy and scratchy and I can't make out if it's a man or a woman. 

"Shut up, bitch! Now, Casey, you listen to me. I have a gun, and I'm pointing it straight at your friend's head. The safety's off too. If you cut the call, I'll simply pull the trigger."

"Okay! Okay, I w-won't," I stutter. I'm trembling again. The cold weather isn't helping. Andrea is trying to speak in the background, but her voice is muffled. 

"How was your present, Casey? Did you like it?" The voice asks ominously. I don't like how my name sounds when the stalker says it. The camera sits beside me, unmoving. I put my head between my hands, the phone dropping into my lap.

What do I do?

Fin.

———

I didn't want to post this pos of a scene.

What is this? I don't know myself. It's so poorly written with no proper placement. How did she find the camera? Why did she pick it up in the first place? Why didn't she ask the woman at the counter about the person who left it there? Why does she go ahead and fall asleep at a random park? Why didn't she search up all that stuff on her way home? Why is she so stupid? Why am I so stupid?

I even ended it with a crappy clliffhanger.

Whew.

Inspired by the 64th writing prompt from softfortxt's Prompts:

You walk into your favourite coffee shop and spot what seems to be an abandoned camera at your regular table.

Curious, you glance through it, and find that it's filled with photos of you from the past month.

I changed it up a bit.

Anyway, thanks for reading this failure of an attempt at writing a tense situation. I won't even ask you to vote.