She's there. I can feel her. I don't know who or what she is, but I just somehow know it's a female. She watches my every movement, every night. Standing just outside the edges of my senses, her gaze following me as if a shadow.
Rain. There's always something refreshing about rain,something cleansing. The streetlights being the only sources of light, as the moon is covered by thick, dense black clouds, and lightning occasionally flashing overhead with a bright crackle, I drive along towards my destination in the brightly neon lit streets. The air feels charged. The windshield wipers go hiss-thunk, hiss-thunk, over and over again, the slight splashing sounds whisper against the metal skin of the car, and still, she is there. In the air in the car, I can see my breath. Very chilly, but its unseasonably warm outside.
Stepping out of the car, my foot splashing in the dirty rainwater that is pooling here and there on the streets, I walk towards the building where the crowds are. The red and blue lights spiral and spin vividly, like a kaleidoscope of surrealistic glimmerings, the voices coming from the speakers all around me mixing into a confusing din. Light shines off badges and flat laminated ID cards, as I am able to slowly make my way through the crowd, and into the door.
The door shuts with a loud thud, and the chaos outside is muffled. I can still feel her. A uniform cop comes to me and nods down the corridor, and we walk. I can smell the coppery scent of blood already, and once I enter, the young, naked girl curled on the floor, skin already beginning to whiten, catches my eyes. Other uniforms, detectives and so forth swarm about her. In my ear, a whisper brushes by me, a masculine voice. "She's coming for you, Dan. Be prepared." The voice ends with a laugh, and I am mystified even further.
The alarm awakens me from a fitful sleep, where I have been dreaming of "her." I blink into the subdued light in my apartment, counting the days since I went to that scene. Two weeks. Nothing else has happened, at least that we know of, and she is still there, somewhere. Is this some sort of bizarre serial murder spree? Theme murders? What? I step into the bathroom and turn on the hot water, stepping in and taking a shower, washing my hair, my face, shutting my eyes and letting the world take a break. I jerk as I feel a feminine hand going up my ribcage. I whirl, wiping soap and shampoo from my eyes. No one's there. I'm alone. But it was so real...
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written by ŠJoe Lovett, 2002