I was in the alley again.

It was were I started every night.

The whistle began, it’s taunting tune ringing through the air, the volume progressively increasing.

Do, re, mi, do.

As badly as I wanted to, I knew running would be useless. I could never truly outrun him. Every time I hid, I was only biding time.

I really should be terrified. After all, I died here night after night.

But I guess you could say I’ve become desensitized to it.

He came from the shadows, the same place he always did.

He never bothered to hide his face, he knew I knew it was him. I think he also wanted me to see how unapologetic he was. How little remorse he felt.

It made him hauntingly beautiful.

I paid him back by ignoring him. Why pay any attention to him when the dagger he used far outshined him?

Knowing it was mine hurt, the stupid thief, but at least he made good use of it.

Tonight, though, I watched his eyes.

I used to think the stars were in those eyes. The very hands that set out to kill me now used to cup my face before those lips that were currently in a terrifying smirk pressed themselves to mine.

The dream ended there. It always ended as he killed me.

I awoke, daylight pouring through the window. It was strange how no matter how short the dream seemed, it always lasted all night.

It took me a second, just like it did every morning, to remember where I was. The walls surrounding me were not the walls of my bedroom, but of the safe house room where I now stayed.

I knew as well as he did though that he would find me. He wouldn’t stop until I was truly dead.

The older version of me was in the kitchen, I could here her singing along to Taylor Swift though I couldn’t quite tell which song.

She’d promised to tell me everything. So far, all she’d told me was what I already knew.

“He’s hunting y-us.”

“I’m only alive now because I managed to come back to now.”

“He won’t stop.”

Nothing I couldn’t have figured out myself.

I slipped out of bed, still dressed from the day before.

I could tell her about the dream, but if she was me, she would already know about it. There was no doubt on what it meant. He was going to kill me. I was starting to think it was pointless, delaying the inevitable.

Nothing would stop him and I couldn’t run forever. Eventually I’d have to either turn and fight or hand myself over. He’d be expecting a fight-hoping for it. He’d be so disappointed if I just showed up and said “go ahead.” It was a shame I still cared.

I showered, trying to wash the thoughts, the memories, the burns his touch left away.

It never did work.

The older me was proof I lasted, even if it was only for a couple more years.

I wondered if she was getting deja vu, being here. If she was trying to remember what she’d been told so she could tell me the same things. If she didn’t know what she could tell me. If when she said ‘everything’ she meant ‘what I can’ and not actually everything.

Lastly, I wondered if I was ever going to throw off my stalker.

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