Own Weakness

You always knew you had a stalker. No, not some excited girl from the next building or even a harmless nerd quietly watching your social networks.

It was him. A grown man, a strong man. You never really saw his face, just glimpses – a silhouette in a crowd, a shadow behind you, a reflection in a shop window. But you felt his presence on your skin, on every nerve. He had been ruining your life for years, showing up when you least expected him.

And here is another such case.

The dark alley seemed like the only shortcut home. Your legs carried you along the dirty asphalt, your subconscious screamed that it was a mistake, but you wanted to get to safety as soon as possible.

Didn't make it in time.

A powerful hand materialized from the darkness, as if part of the darkness itself. A tug by the scruff of the neck, and you were thrown against a rough brick wall. With his other palm he pressed you hard to himself, almost breaking your arm. The bitter, chemical stench of old rag filled his mouth. The world swam, spun.

You tried to break free, as you had done long ago – desperately, with rage. But now... Now your body wouldn't listen. The strength drained by months of this pursuit was running out. Your muscles were numb, your legs buckled. You could only helplessly thrash in the iron grip, feeling your consciousness slipping away along with the last glimmers of panic.

And that's the worst thing. Not the darkness, not his strength, but your own weakness.