The Keepers (Niall Horan FanFic)

Chapter 15-Stranger In The Alley

Clip, clop, clip, clop. I grimace as I hear my footsteps echo off everything around me, making the innocent activity of walking down my darkened street sound like I'm engaged in a full-fledged shootout. I try to smother them, make my movements more subtle, but it's useless. In fact, I'm a walking target for any troublemakers; if someone were looking for a small, easy girl to mug, I'm about as hard to find as the sun. I scowl, picking up my pace.

In reality, I really wouldn't mind someone having a go at me right now. Sure, it's dark, but if they tried to make a move, I'd welcome it with open arms. Ever sense this afternoon I've been looking to take my anger out on something; well, rather, someone, I think, my eyebrows contracting in anger as I run my left fingers over my right hand. I've recently learned that solid walls aren't exactly the best way to do this. Besides, I'm tired of being ignored and pulled as if I'm nothing more than a puppet on a string. I want something that'll fight back.

My eyes lock on the empty street ahead, black but for the street light flooding yellow-tainted light over it. I try to focus on the road and making my movements less noticeable, but my mind always slips back into the same wheel that's been turning ever since I left Niall with a somewhat shy yet triumphant look in his eyes, hesitating when telling me goodbye, his hand unconciously moving towards my face. It was at this moment that I smiled, told him I had to leave, and departed with a polite yet final wave of my hand. I thought I saw a trace of dissapointment and something else cross those blue eyes, but before I let myself analyze why I had turned around, trying to walk as fast as possible in the other direction without the movement actually being classified as running. I knew I was being watched, so I wasn't at liberty to break into a run. I just walked as fast as I could as far as I could, not really paying attention to where my feet were taking me.

Even now as I pass under the yellow light from the streetlamp, I feel my eyes slip, my mind wander, back to that train of thought..

Niall Horan ran through a farmer's market dragging you beside him. He made you laugh. He also made you feel something else, too, the moment he looked into your eyes, swearing he wouldn't let anyone hurt you..

No, I think, shaking my head. It wasn't guilt, or pity. Or was it? Even I'm not entirely sure, unconciously taking a left into the alley that serves as a shortcut to my plaza. It's dodgy because there's no lights here, but it's already almost dark, and I have to get back before my mind gets me lost altogether..

I don't know what you're afraid of, I think. It's not like you're in love with him. There's no way he could know what you're feeling. He won't kill you over running away.

Or would he? My hand reaches up to my head, gently tracing the soft thin scar that I got the night he threw me into the mirror. I wince, remembering the searing pain his hands had caused me as I feel the glass crack all over again, the small, thin peices lodging deep into my skull..

I start, the wind bringing me back to my senses. I glance down at my arm, suddenly aware that the hairs are standing on end. I pause, my eyebrows contracting together; I'm in the middle of the alleyway, a place that shouldn't ever be bothered by the wind..

I sense the body before I feel it. I reach my hand into my purse, grasping the compartment that holds my small pocketknife. I whip around, desperately grasping the knife with my fingers, clutching it with the tips of my fingers; before I can whip it open, I feel a rough hand on my shoulder and another knocking the knife out of my hand. I see the glint of silver steel reflect off of something three, four feet away; deflecting the hand off my shoulder, I shove both my hands hard into the dark mass as it gives a grunt of surprise; I break free of the grip around my elbow and surge forward, breaking into a run.

Run, I think numbly, praying to God that the attacker isn't my employer paying me a visit due to my running away from the target. I get about five feet when I feel both hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly to my clothing. I swing my elbow as hard as I can, hoping to catch a jaw, but it swipes empty air; I feel myself being shoved up against the cold brick, and for once my body is a curse rather than blessing, my light weight proving no match against my assailant.