Stalker // DNF

5: Lesson

George had the green light from his superior to label the cyber-stalking a cold case. He finished some paperwork and submitted it, printing what was needed for the file. When he placed the file in the cabinet, he swore he'd return to it. He just had a feeling this stalker would be back, they never seem to disappear for too long. He would never understand it, the craving for someone's personal information or space. But, unfortunately, he dealt with a lot of people exactly the same in his job.

The worst part is contacting the victims and saying the case will remain unsolved. It's always the worst part. The disappointment, the anxiety, but there was nothing more he could do.

It's a miracle George actually arrived on time for work this morning. Even more impressive? He sailed through the day and remained sane to the eyes of his co-workers. He laughed with them at lunch and joked about their bosses. Inside, a completely different story was taking place.

Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. He didn't know if he wishes to see a painting of him unable to swim and prove a little crazy can be useful, or see nothing and put this entire thing behind him, realising that he was just a little paranoid. Actually he did know, of course it was the second option, who on earth would wish that they had a stalker? God knows what he could have been doing in the comfort of his own home, never knowing someone's eyes were tracing his every move.

George had been torturing himself all day with wonders of what he had been doing at home for the past few weeks? Or months, god forbid. Luckily the webcam was in his living room and partially pointing at his kitchen. If it was in his bedroom or bathroom, he would have had a breakdown.

He now walks home, knowing he is going to take the longer path through the victims' neighborhood. It was never up for debate, his curious mind is desperate to be proven wrong, that he is, in fact, not crazy.

His steps fall on the ground much quicker than usual, desperate to meet the illuminated sign announcing the desired street. He does anything to preoccupy his mind; not step on the cracks in the floor, count how many red cars pass him on the road, count how many strands of hair he can see that fall in front of his eye. Nothing truly distracts him from the possibility of what could be awaiting him on the next street.

George nearly begins running as he approaches the corner and is faced by the mural of the drinks. He scans the street, checking each and every surface he walks past. Each wall is examined with his gaze and he slows his pace to have a thorough investigation.

He reaches the end of the street and looks around desperately. Nothing.

George refuses to accept it and runs, actually runs this time, back to the beginning of the street to begin his patrol again. This time he goes behind the apartment buildings, definitely brakes some trespassing rules, goes into the bus shelters and looks under the seats, which are barely wide enough to sit a person, let alone a painting. He looks at drainpipes, loose tiles are picked up off the floor and he looks carefully at the doors of each flat.

When he arrives at the end of the street once again he falls silent and looks back at the street. He's lost it, he was so desperate to be proven right that he is acting mad.

He slumps his weight into his leg and takes a second to think, Dream is a famous painter who happened to coincidentally paint some things that went on in George's life. He is not some criminal who hacked into George's webcam to obsess over the life of a very average man in his mid twenties.

He is shocked that he feels a little surprise that his theory had been debunked - had he truly thought this was reality? But mostly he feels relief that a final stopper was placed on his paranoia, preventing it to further escape its pipes.

George looks back at the street and shakes his head with an embarrassed laugh. He can finally put this to bed, learn a lesson to not leave his webcam on and accept he sometimes can get carried away with silly ideas.

He continues his walk home and picks his phone up from his pocket. He navigates his way to the group chat and drops them a message, 'Hey guys, sorry I went a little insane earlier. You're right I was tired and everything felt so weird. I am aware that Dream is not stalking me and I am aware that you will take the piss out of me for this for years :)'

He laughs again at his stupidity and quickly arrives home.

George wakes up the next morning after a comfortable and good nights rest, at last. He'd briefly spoken to his friends last night while gaming and he was correct, they had dug into him about the entire Dream thing. But he'd turned his webcam off after use and made sure the red light disappeared.

George sits up in bed and reaches for his phone. He has a message from his Mum waiting for him, so he unlocks the phone and sees she's sent a photo.

Morning Darling! Was on a little walk this morning and saw this - how fantastic!

George waits for the photo to load, expecting a hedgehog or fox walking in the park. His mum had been into deciphering different birds, perhaps it would show a particularly rare breed?

What he doesn't expect is for his breath to get caught in his throat and his heart to pound into his ribs when he sees a piece of graffiti, that signature he would recognise in poor light and a wall of that damn street he walked last night.

Resting on the wall is blue, lots and lots of blue and bubbles. In amidst the blue lays a young boy, his face covered by his arms. His legs sprawled outwards, demonstrating his clear panic in the water. Around him, above the blue are blurred kids, pointing and laughing at him.

The boy in the pool wears striped swimming shorts - and an over-sized shirt.