The noise was following me.
The sound was becoming replaced by pulsating beats, that increased with my steps.
I could feel eyes burning into the back of me, but I was too scared to turn around and face them.
My last customer of the night was a man sitting alone at the bar. He ordered only a whiskey.
He was good looking for his age, black shaggy hair with hints of grey peeking through.
What I noticed first, though, are his eyes. To just say that they were blue would be like calling a fire orange. Sufficient, but it doesn’t capture the burn. His eyes didn’t share the same remorse and bitterness as the others who have sat in that seat.
They were alive.
After coming back from the kitchen with clean glasses, I notice the man was gone. I went to pick up his cup and am flattered by what I find. Tucked under the glass I see the face of Benjamin Franklin staring at me. I’ve worked here for 4 years and this is the biggest tip I’ve ever received.
As soon as the clock hits two I’m gone. Grabbing my purse, I leave through the back and into the alley. I’m surprised by who I saw leaning against the shabby bricks. I know what he is waiting for, actually who he is waiting for.
It is normal for customers to try and hit on me after my shift. Being a bartender for the oldest dive bar in the city, I learned to deal with the sad middle aged men, but this one was different.
I make my way over to him, it is hard to see his face in the poorly lit space.
“Hey, I just want to say thank you for your tip back in there,” I say while offering him a big smile.
“No. No, thank you.” That’s all that his raspy voice had to say before he walks back towards the bar.
As I start my walk home, the breeze that the Chicago wind brought in was fierce. Being late April, most people would expect to see flowers spurting out of the ground, instead there is frost on the windows and the sharp nails of the cold are piercing through my skin.
Chills danced up my spine, but not because of the weather
The bad vibe that was lingering in the air made me feel uneasy. Paranoia kicks in and I have a feeling that someone is following me.
Every few steps I take a look behind me, hoping that I see no one, but prepared if I do. When I check again, my stomach drops at what I see.
It’s the man from the bar.
The smirk on his face was enough for my blood to run cold. My head felt like air. I knew I had to keep going.
I was finally so close to home, the familiar paint chipped door coming into view. Relief floods my body, as I had the key in my hand.
I wasn’t planning on my heel getting stuck in the storm drain though. I twisted and pulled my leg but it was no use, it was wedged in there tightly.
I turn around and see he’s about a block back. I bend down and my fingers fumble with the strap that secures the heel to my foot. Profanities keep slipping from my mouth and I can’t keep the tears in any longer. Frustrated and ready to give up, I try one more time, and pray that I can get it to come off.
It does.
As soon as it’s free I run.
Short staggering breaths are leaving my mouth and I wipe the tears free so I can see the lock. I slide the key in and keep turning, the sound of the click is heavenly.
I’m brought back to Hell when I feel thick fingers puncture my hips.
Before I have a chance to scream, my mouth is smothered by a hand that reeks of nicotine.
I wiggle and squirm for freedom, but it just doesn’t come. He drags me around the corner and pins me to the brick wall. Muffled pleas escape my mouth, but he just feeds off of my fear.
He lives for this.
And I die for it.