Death followed me everywhere, I knew he was there. Even if everyone else thought I was just crazy.
It started when I was a young child. My footsteps and everyone else's footsteps were the things I heard most clearly. As a child, footsteps were my best friend.
Mine were little clickity-clacks, my mother's were the prominent click clicks, and father's were the soft stomps.
Other people had different footsteps. And I could tell who people were just from the sound of their footsteps.
But my footsteps changed. Not exactly changed, but it grew. My clickity's turned into clickity's and slaps. Slapping footsteps like pouring rain falling onto pavement.
There was someone, something, following me.
I called him Footsteps. I tried to get him to come out countless times to play, but they was never a response.
So I'd started fear him, but my parents always told me it was just my imagination. So I pretend they weren't there, that the loud slapping footsteps weren't following me, but in the back of my mind, I knew they were.
And every time I turned around or checked in the mirror, he wasn't there. But the footsteps still were. I just kept pretending that they weren't there. And one day, I started to believe it.
For years, I thought the footsteps had actually left, but the faint slaps told me I was wrong. I still ignored them.
Soon, my parents sent me to a mental hospital. That's where I am today. They caught me going insane in my bedroom. I was only trying to get Footsteps to come out. They didn't believe me, like always.
Please take your medicine, The nurse came into my isolated chamber and held out two pills. I frantically shook my head no as I crawled into the corner of the room.
But I knew it had no use. The nurse would shove those pills down my throat if she had to. Because she was my mother.
Those pills. I think they did the opposite of what they were supposed to do. The footsteps I faintly heard behind me, matching its pace with mine. They almost went away. But the pills made them louder. Louder until I couldn't bear it.
I grasped my head, it was pounding from his footsteps as I paced around the corridor. I screamed in agony.
I couldn't stop walking. Footsteps had finally reached me, after all these years. Footsteps finally caught up to me after years of me running away. The nurse came running in. I didn't glance at her, much less notice her.
Then, I stopped walking. It was so abrupt, I almost fell, but Footsteps glued my feet to the floor. I turned because I knew Footsteps was there. He always was.
But I saw nothing once again. So I faced back forward. And there he was. I didn't jump or cry out. He didn't scare me, not at all. His looks weren't even the scariest part of it.
He had blood dripping from his face and body, his arm looked like it was torn off, his clothes made of dirty blood-stained rags, but they felt inviting. He held out his arms, and smiled with pointed teeth.
What's happening, you need more medicine, don't you!?, The nurse cried out as she ran for more pills. The nurse came back, and she looked frightened. I knew she couldn't see him, because she was looking only at me. Shoving more pills down my throat, she left.
I smiled, finally being able to confront him. I took a step forward. And for once, my footsteps sounded like mine again. For an eternity, I had always heard the slapping footsteps over mine.
My little clickity's developed into soft pitter patters. Like I was scared to walk. I looked up from my feet. He was still smiling and holding his arms out in a welcoming hug. I took more steps towards him until I was only a step away from him.
I took one last step, it was the loudest slap that sent me landing into his arms. He embraced me, and I could feel a dull pain.
Ah, I finally understand now. Footsteps, you're my shadow aren't you? Footsteps didn't reply to my thoughts, but I knew he could hear them. Footsteps, you're not my shadow, but a shadow of my death right? I felt a slight nod.
I smiled once again, it was funny knowing death was following me around the whole time. And I did nothing, but fear it.
The scariest part of him wasn't his looks, or the dripping blood, or the creepy smile and unpleasant, welcoming hug. But the thing I most feared were his footsteps.
