Wait

It's so incredibly dark that I just can't stand it. And quiet. It's oppressively quiet. The loudest noise is my heart pounding through my chest, bursting through my ribcage and the flesh of my breasts, pouring down the front of my T-shirt. The next loudest sound in my breath, ragged and raspoing, tearing through my throat, bringing my lungs with it into the humid night air. I try to keep it in, to keep it quiet so I won't be found croushing there in the brush - it is very dark, after all, and I don't think he could see me unless I moved or made a m noise. But the need for air betrays me. I have been running too hard. All this time training, running on the treadmill, at the park, at the track, increasing my speed, my time, my distance. I should have been practicing quiet and peaceful breathing.

I can hear footsteps approaching. Careless footsteps. Apparently this guy isn't worried about being caught, or at least about me hearing HIM. He just assumes he's got the upper hand. He doesn't know I'm hiding here, not ten feet from him, in the brush, cltching this knife. This kitchen knife. A bread knife, actually. A stupid bread knife.

The panic rises in my throat like the scream I haven't let out. This is absurd! I should be in bed! I should be dreaming! I was having a nice dream where I couldn't get the elevator to stop on my floor and had to keep using the stairs, but for some reason I was always missing my floor - as though the stairs went right past it.

The next thing I knew there was a manin my room. It took a second or two for me to realize I was awake and this wasn't part of my dream, that this nightmare was REAL... and then I swallowed my scream.

I rolled out of bed and ran out the door, glad he was at my dresser, rifling through my jewelry box. He can have my jewelry. Most of it is cheap plastic anyway.

I thought he would leave once he saw I was awake - theives don't want trouble, they want a quick in and out, no trouble, no one to identify them. But instead of leaving through the back door he followed me, slowly and in no rush, into the kitchen where I had picked up the phone and started dialing before I realized there was no dial tone. And that's when I grabbed the knife from the counter and hopped out the window. I don't remember leaving the window open - I never leave windows open, even when it's this hot, just in case, you know, something like THIS happens. But this one was open. I guess I wasn't as careful as I thought. I shot right up onto thr counter and through the screen, getting tangled in the bush beneath and my T-shirt. The moment I found my feet I rushed toward to wooded area in back.

Brilliant.

So here I am with a bread knife, crouching in the brush where I could be shouting at the Deegans's front door across the street. They are a nice family, the Deegans. They would have helped me.

Maybe he won't find me.

Maybe he won't see me.

Maybe he will change his mind.

Eventually the footsteps stop, and I imagine him hovering over me in the pitch dark, leering, sneering, whatever it is he does, waiting for me. But after forever I look up and there's no one there.

I don't move. What if I'm wrong? What if her's waiting for me?

I'll wait until daylight. I'll spend the rest of the dark hours here with my bread knife, which is better than nothing, really, when you think about it. I'll wonder who the guy is, and how he found me, and why he's disconnected my phone. I'll wonder if he's gone for good or just watching from afar... or if he's back in my house, hiding, waiting for me, in some closet I hardly go into.

At least in the daylight I'll be able to see him coming. I'll make it to the Deegans's house. I'll cream and ring their bell and pound on their door. I'll frighten their two little girld and their little scottie dog. I'll make them call the police.

Unless he finds me before then.

I'll wait. Here in the dark.

I'll wait.

The beginning

She peered over my shoulder as I typed. "Just what the world needs. Yet another amature blog."

I sighed. "Thanks. You're support and enthusiasm are encouraging." I kept typing.

"It's not that I don't think you should write," she explained. I could hear her voice grow distant as she walked into the kitchen and grabbed a coke. It got louder as she walked back into the den. "It's just that... do we really need more stories about spaceships or dragons?"

"It's fantasy / Sci-Fi, and it's what I like to write!" I protested.

"Well... on a blog? I mean, what's the point? Won't the blog owners own the stories?"

"I AM the blog owner."

"No, I mean the... the people... the company that SUPPORTS the blog. I'm pretty sure they now own those words you're typing."

I sighed. "Not until I click the publish button. Besides, this is just to keep me writing. Like practice. I can post as often as I want, and then, if people are so inclined, they can comment and tell me just why they think my work is crap. "

"Aren't you embarrassed?" she said. "I mean, putting your name on all these stories? That are probably really... no offense, but they are probably really mediocre at best, and here you are putting out there for the whole world to see?"

"That's the magic of blogs. There are so many. How many people will actually see this one and comment on my mythical space creatures? And even if they do, and even if they hate me, I can do this almost completely anonymously. I mean, who knows it's me? I'm not telling anybody."

"Then what's the point of doing it?"

I stopped typing. "I'm not really sure."