There was nothing. No thoughts. No plans. Just fear. Fear that pulled the oxygen from her lungs and forced her to choke and gasp for air. Fear that filled her utterly and completely, erasing all sense of stability and logic. Fear that wrapped it's cold and nimble fingers around her heart a squeezed until she couldn't do anything. Anything except run. It was the most instinctive thing she had ever felt in her entire life. As if someone from above head reached into her mind and thoughts, and found a little lever and flipped it down. She had gone from scared, to terrified, to gone. There was nothing in her mind, just the single word that she clung to, and sobbed out between choking gasps. Run. Run. The only noise she could hear was the blood pounding in her delicate ears, and the repetitive, rhythmic slapping of rubber soles on the concrete. Every inch of her skin crawled, sweat streamed from her hairline, down into her eyes, stinging and blinding her. But she kept running. Running as if the hounds of hell were behind her, snapping at her heels. It was too dark to see the roads she was running on. She had no idea where she was going. The dark hid patch of oil beneath her foot. Falling to the ground, the terrified female cried out in pain and looked back over her shoulder. There was nothing there. A loud crack sounded around her as a jagged streak of lightning tore open the sky and illuminated the area around her. She had run into a dead end. Scrambling to her feet, she stumbled backwards, towards the end of the alley. A great clap of thunder shook her to her core. Her ears caught a slight scraping sound. Green eyes slid to the open end of the alleyway. Another scrape, as if something was dragging itself across the ground. The woman desperately covered her mouth with violently shaking hands, trying to muffle the sobs erupting from her mouth. Another Streak of lightning. Another moment of illumination. Another boom of thunder. And then the clouds opened up, and released a torrent of water. The sound of the rain pounding on the concrete completely drowned out the noise she had heard. But it was still there. She could feel it, getting closer. The woman sobbed into her hands and slowly slid down the stone wall behind her, stopping in a crumpled heap on the floor. There was a patch of darkness that kept getting closer. Lightning struck again, filling the area around her with an eerie glow. Raindrops fall from the sky falling, falling. They hit the crown of her head, and drip slowly, slowly. Sliding down strands of hair, the rain soaks her to the bone.
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Sighing, the woman leans back in her computer chair. Black curly hair is thrown over her shoulder and out of her face, as green eyes stare at the computer screen in front of her. The phone in her cubicle rings. Picking it up, she answers. "Hello, you've reached the anonymous tip hotline. How may I assist you?" Listening to the distressed caller, the woman carefully types down what is being said. "Thank you for your tip, if you see anything else, please call immediately." The woman drops the phone on it's hanger and stares at the newspaper clippings pasted onto her cubicle wall. One advertises for the hotline, and another holds a wanted poster. This poster shows a police sketch, and a description of his crimes beneath the sketch. A kidnapper and murderer, mentally unstable, and part of a cult. Your everyday crazy. The phone rings again. The woman answers. "Hello, you've rea-" "Hello, Juniper." Brows knitting together, the woman sits forward in her chair and says quietly,"How do you know my name, sir?" How indeed. Anonymous means anonymous, for the caller and the caller recipient. "I can't wait to see you again." The mans voice responds. He sounds completely calm, as if commenting on the weather. Juniper frowns and says sharply,"Pranks are not appreciated, sir. This is a police affiliated hotline, and you will be char-" A dial tone interrupts her. Juniper slowly puts the phone on the hanger. Silence fills her cubicle, but the sounds continue around her. Other calls are answered, printers hum and whir as they print more informative posters. Who was that? How did they know her name? She thinks. Her phone rings again. Shaking her head, the young woman answers the phone. Probably a prank, not something to think about twice. She returns to work, and forgets about the call.
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Shakily pulling herself upright, Juniper looks to the end of the alley again. There's nothing there. Of course there's nothing there. It was just her imagination. At least this is what she tells herself. Lurching forward, Juniper runs back out of the alleyway she had trapped herself in. The rain mats her hair together, plastering it against her skin. Frantically pushing the sopping locks out of her eyes, Juniper begins to run again. She didn't know where she was, or where she was going, but she knew that she was getting out. Her legs and thighs ached, and her lungs burned. She made it a few blocks, before collapsing in a shivering heap. Shakes wracked Junipers body as she curled up. The pouring rain pounded the ground around her, and stung the exposed skin on her body.
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OC's, a story I wrote, and art. But I don't journal.
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"I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing."
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What are Italian plumbers' jeans made of?
Denim denim denim.
If you're cool, you'll get the joke.