I am your worst nightmare.
I know others claim to be, but they’re wrong.
When you realize I’m out there, your knees go weak.
You see my name, your mouth goes dry.
You see a shadow, you know it’s me. You know I’m there. Your heart races.
You walk down the street after a long day at work. It’s very cold out, and everyone has already retired to their warm houses, snuggled up by loved ones.
But not you.
Now, you regret volunteering for overtime.
You know I’m walking behind you, just far enough so I can see you, but not vice versa.
I have been planning, waiting, observing.
You cross the street in a feeble attempt to escape me.
That won’t work, and deep down inside, you know that too.
You rush home, hoping that when you get inside your house, I’ll disappear.
You break out into a sprint, feet hitting the hard pavement.
I run after.
We’re locked in a chase.
Will I catch up? Or will you escape?
You practically throw yourself against the door. Breathing heavily, you fumble with the lock.
You get in, and slam the door so hard that the burnt-out light bulb in the kitchen regains power.
You slump against the door, safe.
Safe until tomorrow.
For I will get you Mr. Mailman.
I will get you.
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