I look to my right, there’s nobody there. And then I begin to imagine the same killer that has been haunting my dreams. He’s moved to my senses. I squint briefly and I can see his silhouette from the shadows. His right arm lies lazily against his half open trench coat. It’s tattered at the ends, and suddenly I feel intimidated for the first time. I am the Wounded Rabbit to his starving Blood Hound stomach.
I can tell he’s missing an eye. His eye patch isn’t hard to hide, but I can tell he isn’t trying to hide it. His hair falls unevenly, and I see him bring up his left arm as if he’s going to shoot me. His middle finger pulls an invisible trigger and the smoke follows his index. I’m falling backwards into the darkness.
I need a drink.