Stalking the Dancer || 18+

Part Two - Stalked

Someone has been in my apartment. The stack of mail on the counter is in a different order than I left it this morning and my bathroom door is ajar. I never leave the bathroom door open. The deli has a lot of smells that seem to funnel into my bathroom, making my apartment smell like a ham. While I don't necessarily mind that, it's not my favorite round-the-clock fragrance. I started having way too many nightmares about sandwiches, so I kept the door closed.

Bile burns my throat and I force it down in a fleeting attempt to keep my cool. Maybe I left the door unlocked this morning and a deli customer wandered up here. That seems like a stretch and, even if, I don't know why they'd go through my mail. 

The fear gets stronger the more I think about the past few months of living here. I've felt someone watching me at the dance studio, at home, even at the grocery store. When I broke my foot and flew home to my mom's the feeling stopped. It's a skin-crawling sensation that makes my body heat up and goosebumps rise everywhere. And it came back when I did. Back to this town, this apartment, these people who I don't fit in with. 

I came here to leave the dark cloud behind me, I never considered that I could stumble upon somewhere worse than where I came. To my knowledge, I never had a stalker in Oregon, just a lot of messy loose ends and a restraining order. A crazy ex-boyfriend who wanted more from me than I could give him: marriage and babies, a perfect wife, a perfect home. That isn't me at all, I never wanted any of that, but I entertained it until it drove him mad. I can admit that much, that it would have been better for the both of us if I had ended things sooner. 

I must be imagining this. Dreaming up something worse to focus on than losing my dance career to an afternoon practice. There isn't a reason why anyone would want to watch me in the first place, I'm being ridiculous. I just need a nap.

I draw the blinds closed on my three windows, effectively turning my tiny apartment into a dark cave. I head to bed and grab my phone before reaching for my dresser drawer. 

It's gone.

My vibrator is gone. 

I don't have a big place and my deli-scented bathroom isn't much of a turn-on for me, so it lives in the dresser. Me, sink, dresser drawer, repeat. The route my toys travel isn't a long one. Now I know I'm not insane; someone's been in my apartment. They could've taken more than just that or, worse, left something behind. 

I start by methodically looking through every drawer and cabinet I have. This person must be under the impression that I pay less attention to detail than I do, or they don't care whether or not I know they've been here. That may mean they're coming back. 

I'm going to hope they assume that I'm ditzy. But they have to know I'd notice sooner or later, right? Maybe I should text Mom and ask for advice, but she'd put herself in debt to be on the first plane down here, and then we'd both be stuck here with a psycho stalking me. I don't want to bring that on her. I know this is the part of the movie where the girl does the one thing that risks her safety the most, but I can't bring myself to risk my mom's.

At least that's what I'm going to tell myself. 

Maybe there's a part of me that knows this was inevitable; the dark cloud following me through this life until it ends. The bad things will be attracted to me until I pay some sort of cosmic karma out of my control. I probably did something to deserve it, I just wish I knew what. 

What if there's a part of me, deep down, that wants to go downstairs, grab a pipe from the alley, and sit my happy ass in bed to wait for my visitor to reappear. That part of me would be irrational, wild, and completely irresponsible. That part of me would also happen to be in the driver's seat right now.

The blinds are back up, I can't tip them off that I've caught on. The pipe I got downstairs has been leaning against the back of our building since I moved in, I walk past it every day. It's now resting right outside my door, in the umbrella holder Mrs. Acker gave me with the apartment. 

It's taking all of my self-control to keep my heart rate down but I need to use my senses to my advantage and a panic attack will interfere with that. It's almost like they read my mind because goosebumps skitter up my skin the same way they have every night since I got back from Oregon.

I'm not naive enough to think the asshole will come back inside twice in one day, so I'm gonna bait him out of his hiding spot. The adrenaline pumping through my veins could power a small city, I've never done something this careless in my life. I don't know if it's grief or rage, but whatever it is I'm fucking fed up. Sick and tired of other people controlling my life, so I intend to take some of that control back tonight. The clock reads eleven-thirty and I know the deli is busy enough to keep my landlords occupied because I can hear the commotion from downstairs. 

I reach for the hem of my shirt and slowly drag the fabric up my skin, making sure to put on a little show as I pull it over my head and toss it on the floor. My bralette is thin and has no cups, leaving little to the imagination. After a few moments, I stand, grab my crutches, and head to the door. I flip the light off as I go, replace my crutches with the alley-pipe, and rely on the railing to help me hobble down the back stairs. My windows are on the side of the building, the stairs are on the back.

I wore a watch for this exact reason, it's been ten minutes and he hasn't made a move. I'm crouching behind the dumpster and a stack of milk crates to conceal myself, but the odds of a stalker noticing me before I notice him seem statistically high. The metal is starting to warm in my hand, my fingers white-knuckling the hardware that I'm pretty sure was once under a sink. 

A pebble skipping down the concrete alerts me to someone's presence but I'm too vulnerable to blow my spot so soon. I can't run very well, there's a hard cast on my lower leg. Pipe is my only option.

I can't focus enough to count how many seconds pass before I'm able to make out the outline of a man at the end of the alleyway. I'm frozen in my spot, my breath hitched in my throat, and I watch as slow steps carry him closer and closer to my dumpster. 

He saw me. There's no way he hasn't seen me. He stopped too close for him not to know, he too perfectly turned his head to the side farthest from me, and I felt a burn in my thighs as I stood as quietly as possible. I stepped out from behind the dumpster, unable to keep the sound of my iron foot from turning his head. The recognition in his eyes is enough of a guilty plea for me to swing for his family jewels. 

It connects and he falls to his knees, bringing his nose a little high in my strike zone, but I can make it work. I swing up and listen to his nose crack under my weapon. Blood is pouring onto the concrete beneath him, he has so much in his head. He leans forward on his knees before bringing a hand to his broken nose for the first time.

He roughly runs his fingers up its bridge, palpating until he locates what he's looking for. Without a breath, he snaps his nose from its previously crooked position into what I assume is relatively its original one. Blood is flowing harder now if that's even possible, but it doesn't stop a wicked smile from stretching across his face as he looks up at me from his knees.

I freeze for a second, he's terrifying. His irises look black in this low light and the blood dripping from his chin is animalistic. His teeth are red like everything else as he grins and my limbs suddenly regain mobility. I lift the pipe above my head and put all my weight behind one last blow. His big paw of a hand easily caught it and twisted it hard to get it free from my hands. Still on his knees in front of me, he grabs my wrist and yanks me down toward his chest. 

The last thing I see is red.