OmarBradley

  Stop. Don't breathe. Don't think. He might hear you. I am pressed against the wall. My fingers are spread as wide as they will go as my palms press heavily on the drywall. I take a deep breath. Hold it tight. I feel the air escaping my lungs, my circulation; my blood thinning of oxygen as I hold, one, two, three…. I hear Him slither down the hallway. His movements are languid, snake like, as He comes after me. I can imagine it all in my head: the long, thin arms, coiling around every turn and corner, searching for me. Have you ever noticed His face? His eyes—or lack thereof? I have a theory. He doesn't have eyes because

"Hi, I'm-" "I know who you are." "You do?" "You're the guy who thinks he's invisible." "I have a name-" "It isn't important. Because you really don't think it's important." "All right. Since we've started out this way, let me just tell you, I know you too." "Yeah?" "You're the girl who is broken." "I am not broken." "You're the girl whose eyes close every night and open the next morning, only to find you have never slept at all." "I sleep well. Besides-" "You're the girl who dreams of a happy ending even though she has seen seventeen...no, eighteen unhappy ones in her eighteen years." "Happy endings are over rated. And you're-"