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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Mind of Matthew

Submitted: February 19, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 19, 2015



Shh. I silence my footsteps. Has she heard me? Immobile, I slowly crane my gaze around the corner. The night is dark and the moon is a grey slab sunken into its abyss, we can’t be seen. She’s looked back, examining her surroundings, her face shrouded in a mouth-watering cocktail of fear; she has heard me, it doesn't matter, I am insatiate. The lane is narrow, winding, enclosed either side by long beams of grass and wheat swaying inebriate in the gentle wind. Creeping over the fields, it seeps through the cracks in the stone walls and the branches of the trees, groaning. She continues to walk, just my imagination she thinks. Haha. I’ve stalked long enough now I think, time to reveal myself. I emerge from my shadows and walk confidently around eleven metres behind her. Interesting number, eleven, comprised of not one one but two ones, the most interesting number there is. Although one-hundred and eleven has three ones in it, so I can’t put my finger on what makes eleven any better. Her strides become longer and more frequent, though she tries to hide it. They always do this, make it easy. Why not just run if you're that afraid? Why maintain your composure and fight your inherent instinct to survive?
Her eyes are misty now, and her skin cold. I move her body into the damp grass at the side of the road, and prop her up against the wall, legs crossed and hands on her knees. That’s six now, five more to go I’d say, that feels about right. Eleven that would make as well. Haha. Great number.

© Copyright 2018 Horatio Dawson. All rights reserved.

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