This was the first thing that I ever wrote. Be gentle.
The shrill sound of fear lacerates the still air. Her pursuer smiles. She has wasted vital breath, an obvious indication that she is tiring. It is evident that the chase will soon be over, and they both know it.
Sweat allows for her swift dehydration. She is slowing, against her will. In her mind's eye, she can already anticipate the feel of the outsider's hands on her body. She shudders involuntarily. That cannot be permitted, circumstances regardless.
The cavernous mouth of another alley looms, swallowing the pair. Now it is the quarry's turn to grin. She knows the veins of these sun-deprived streets as well as the ones on the back of her hand. Convinced the advantage is in her possession, she surrenders to the demands of her worn body and decelerates.
But the hunting party is also experienced in the chase, and the change of scenery fails to perturb him in the slightest. On the contrary, he finds his prey's evasion attempt amusing, and this amusement bolsters his pace. Her failure does nothing but encourage her pursuer.
Her end looming as the alleyway had, his target blunders. These streets alter in a way her hand did not, blind confidence in prior knowledge has been her undoing. She stumbles.
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The young man fights a swathe through the thick blanket of civilians littering the dirty city street. He has a possessed look about him, strange determination evident in the way his eyes bore holes into the faces of his obstructers, and in his odd, deliberate marching gait. Here is a man with purpose. A purpose he will stop at nothing to fulfil.
A few shops down, an attractive young woman is also in a hurry. Packed bags knock like crackling metronomes against her sides, rhythmic precision a stranger in this anarchical throng. She presses onwards, weaving her careful way through the stitching of this human carpet.
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In a quiet neighbourhood far away from the noise of the streets, a young woman is at work. This is her home and her office, a peaceful setting where she feels at comfort. Everything here is tailored to her satisfaction. Presently she is in the bedroom, reclining on a red leather backed stool and admiring her work. A journalist, she is covering a spread of recent criminal activity in the area for a local newspaper. The work is nothing significant, but it paid her bills. She leaves the finished article and sets it to print while she makes herself a cup of tea.
As she fills the kettle, she treats herself to a moment of self-congratulation on the last weeks work. This is a vital point in her career, and she has outdone herself. The woman gently places a solitary bag of decaffeinated tea into the pot, and gazes with vague affection through the single clear pane of glass covering the north side of her house. She leaves the tea and calmly strolls back into the bedroom.
She recognises the car that has pulled up at the fringe of her neatly manicured lawn. It had been pictured in her article. She also recognises the man inside it for what he is. The woman spends a minute cramming her work into a bag, and scours the house until every last trace has been packed. She is only glad that she had been forewarned of his approach. Standing up, she creeps around to the back of her house.
Three knocks sound on the large front door. He pauses, and then calls her out in his gravelly tones. There is no reply.
She slips out of a secret entrance she has installed herself as a precautionary measure. Shaking with the effort it takes to contain her fear, she floats around the garden and enters her vehicle. Noise is inevitable now. She will lead him away, and then return on foot to gather the remainder of her possessions. Extending a trembling hand, she inserts her key.
A distant rumbling shatters the tranquillity of the scene. Two automobiles exit the area in quick succession, leaving but a cloud of smoke to linger over the dew coated grass. After what seems an era, the kettle boils. The whistled lament resonates eerily in the empty house.
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He pulls his car into the next neighbourhood. He has checked six others this morning alone, and with no fruit to prove his endeavours. He makes no attempt to conceal his presence. The plan is to make her panic. A confused animal makes easy prey. Scanning the buildings, he chooses one that stands out as unusually elaborate. A large window decks one side of the house, and a figure is just visible on the other side. He leaves the vehicle, and begins his search.
The figure retreats before she can be properly identified. She moves deeper into the house, out of sight. She bends down.
Gravel crunches underfoot as he strolls up the perfect driveway. Her door is simply one large slab of wood. This building is as good as any other, and the hair of the faceless figure had resembled that of his target. Carefully, he extends a hand and knocks. Could this be the correct house? A menacing word passes his chapped lips and enters the suspect house. He waits
She has finished packing and exits her residence. She turns the ignition, and the engine of her car chokes into life.
He hears the noise, and is filled with satisfaction. She has given herself away, as he knew she would. He calmly returns to his vehicle, and follows, lights flashing.
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She smiles as she stows the money under a flap in her coat, already imagining the luxuries it could buy. As the young woman quits the building, she retrieves the necessary tools of her day job. Avoiding all suspicion, she joins the flock of press employees already photographing the broken building. Police cover the area, their cars forming a protective enclosure around the site. They are looking the culprit. They won't find her. Silently laughing inside, she sidles up to one and presses for a statement. They continue their search, waving her away.
Inside the destroyed residence, a blonde lock is found. It is bagged and passed to an officer lingering nearby. Words are exchanged, and he returns to the noise of the exterior. The young man pushes his way through the press, jolting a young reporter. He apologises, and leaves the scene.
Picking herself up amongst fits of internal giggles, she returns home, a story already formulating in her head. She collapses in a red leather stool, and begins typing. The proceeds of the night lie around the house, as do the profits of last week's escapades. Her 'work'.
Throughout the night, detectives are at work. They scurry around their offices, frantically trying to trace this elusive criminal. After many wasted hours, the lab is witness to a breakthrough. They know her general location, now it is only a matter of stakeout. A young male officer is requested, and other preparations are hurriedly made for the morning.
Stalker and victim sleep, ignorant to the world.
