Crazy.

He stood over me, the dim light flickering just out of focus. His greasy black hair was plastered to the sides of his face with sweat. The left side of his face was bright red, as though he'd been slapped. His emerald green eyes were wide and crazed, staring deep into my soul. I was terrified, tears streaming down my battered, bruised and bloody face. My cracked lips parted slightly to plea for mercy from the lunatic in front of me. No noise exited my broken mouth. My captor's finger pressed softly to my mouth before he leaned in and whispered something completely discernable. While I did not hear what he said, I understood his intention as his gaze slowly lowered towards my bruised hand.

He stepped away from me and towards his 'workbench' also known as the gore smitten table which housed his instruments of pure torture. He yanked a rusted cleaver out of the wood and stared into it as though it were pure art. Which given what was happening right now it might not be too surprising. My head was spinning, I was barely conscious. He stepped closer and closer. I only just managed to give a small shake of my head and whisper the word "don't" before the cleaver came rushing down towards my wrist. I clenched my eyes shut. The madman's laugh cackled through the darkness.

I jerked awake. I was dripping with sweat and my breathing was ragged. The sun cracked through my blinds and alerted me to my reality. Thank god, it wasn't real. I laid back into my soaked pillows and covered my face with my hands. I shook my head to myself and took a deep breath. It's ok, I silently reassured myself, he wasn't real, he was just a nightmare. I looked over at my bedside alarm clock, just to find the unpleasant truth that I was now late for work. Dammit.

After hastily getting dressed and ramming a burnt piece of toast into my mouth before leaving my flat, I was on my way to work. The job itself wasn't too bad I reminded myself on my walk, it's just the boss who's kind of a jerk. As I strolled down my usual route I continued my vain defense of why I continued to work in a dead-end job such as mine. It could open doors, the optimist in me quietly protested against the overbearing pessimist in me. Listen to yourself, you lousy, pretentious push-over do you really thi- what the hell is that?

I looked across the street and saw something terrifying. Downright horrifying. It was him. The maniac, the guy from the dream.

What

the

hell?

This had to be impossible, right? I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was now stopped in the middle of the pavement, staring at a complete stranger. No. We were plenty familiar already. NO dammit, no. It was just a dream, and a really unfortunate... coincidence.

I am not crazy.

I gave another look, this guy was an exact match. This couldn't be possible. Suddenly his gaze turned and locked with mine. I quickly attempted to hide the fact that I was blatantly staring at this man. I waited a moment and stepped closer to the nearby bus stop. I glanced up, he hadn't shifted his gaze. It was completely locked onto me.

I grabbed a flyer for the bus times and quickly walked away. I got halfway down the street before looking over my shoulder at the other side of the street. He wasn't there. A breath of relief escaped my lips. It was just a dream, he isn't some crazed maniac. Then as I was turning back, out of the corner of my eye he was there. The breath got caught in my throat. He was following me. No no the optimist said panic in his voice, he's probably just... going to work or something.

I turned again and he was speeding up. I in turn picked up my pace. His footsteps got closer and closer. I panicked, made a heat of the moment decision and turned into an alley. After rounding the corner I felt a force slam into me, knocking me into the side of a dank blue dumpster. Hands grabbed me and spun me around.

Suddenly he was there, in my face. His eyes were as wild and as crazy as they were in my dream. His breathing was heavy, did he just sprint to catch me? The guy was right up in my face now, and he pressed a finger into my chest. "You saw me, and that is bad," he hissed at me, spittle flying out between his lips, "you can't escape, I am not crazy." Then he left. He just left. I tried like hell to make his words come to some sort of sense but it was pure nonsense. The ravings of a lunatic.

I couldn't sleep that night, or the night after. His words echoed through my mind day and night. I didn't understand them nor did I want to, and yet I couldn't bring myself to forget them. I saw him a few times after that but I was never sure, across a street, in a crowd. Never alone. Never like that again.

Eventually I began to question whether or not he was even real. But I tried, I tried like hell to prove it. I guess having everyone attempt to convince me I was hallucinating all this time.

I

Am

Not

CRAZY.

Screw anyone who tells me otherwise. I will find this guy. I will find him and prove he is real.

Two months. Two months have passed. I, I found him. I found him. I FOUND HIM. He is real. He is real and I have found him.

he is in the chair

he is trapped and won't escape

he has been bad, he has made my life hell

my face still stings, he hit me, it hurt

he hurt me and ruined my life

I won't let him get away with this

the cleaver looks sharp

I will teach him a lesson

he begs

he screams

he shouts

It's

too

late.

no one can hear you

the cleaver is in my hand

I look at his hand

the hand that hit me

I swing

I chop

I cut

The hand is gone. The maniac slumps forward in his seat. Blood is all over me.

His blood. I win.

I win.

I WIN.

And for the first time in almost a year, I smile.

Even when the cops show up.

Even when they pull me into a straight jacket.

Even when I'm in my rubber cell.

Even when I scream and shout down the corridor.

He is real.

I

AM

NOT

CRAZY.