Obsessed

I bury my hands in my hair, and twist them until it hurts. I was being watched all along. He followed me to my apartment.

He knows where I live.

I stumble to my feet. I need to get out of here. There’s a rush of blood pounding in my ears and I can’t breathe! Enough of my senses remain to grab my cell phone and keys as I lunge through the door and out of my apartment. My hands are shaking so badly it takes me several attempts to lock up behind me. I bolt to my car and slam the lock down as soon as I’m in.

My mind is reeling. What now? Where do I go? What do I do?

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. Heather will know.

I rock back and forth in my seat as I wait for her to answer. She picks up on the third ring.

“Em?” She sounds tired and confused.

“Heather.” I choke on her name, my voice wrought with tears.

“What’s wrong? What do you need me to do?”

I dry my eyes and bite back a smile. I can always count on Heather.

“Someone was here. They’ve been following me.” I knead my forehead. “They know where I live, Heather. They wrote something on my window.”

“Oh God,” Heather says. “Where are you?”

“In my car.” I’m beginning to feel vulnerable just sitting here in the dark parking lot. I should’ve stayed inside. But the thought of going back in there makes my skin crawl.

“You need to go to the police,” Heather says. “File a report while there’s still evidence so they can catch this creeper.”

She sounds so authoritative and in control that I immediately jump into action. I put my keys in the ignition and the engine swings to life. A heavy sigh of relief shudders through me. For a second there I honestly believed it wouldn’t start.

“Okay, I’m going,” I say, as I pull out of the parking lot. “I’ve never even been to a police station before.”

Heather laughs at this. “Neither have I. But time is always of the essence in cop movies, right?”

“Sounds right to me. I’ll call you in a few, okay? Thanks, Heather.”

“Stay safe, Em.”

I hang up, and use my phone’s GPS to navigate to the police station. The only time I’ve ever been downtown was when I had to set up the utilities for my apartment.

The police station is a brick building with a large blue sign and several streetlights glowing around it. I hope they’re still open. I’m not sure if police stations close. It doesn’t seem like they should. Crime doesn’t sleep, right?

I park my car, lock it, and head in.

The glass doors lead me into a vestibule with an intercom. I jam the button and wait.

No one answers.

Just when I’m about to give up, I hear static over the speaker. “Hello?” someone says.

I jam the button to reply. “Um, hi. I’m here to report a stalker at my apartment.” My voice goes up way too high at the end, like I’m asking a question, and now I feel stupid as well as terrified.

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, “Is the stalker at your apartment right now, ma’am?”

“No. Well, I’m not sure. I think he left. I mean, I heard someone leave, I’m just not certain it was him.”

“Then you should’ve called the non-emergency line.” I swear I can hear the eye-roll in that statement.

My cheeks grow warm. I should’ve known this was the wrong way to go about this. “I, uh, didn’t think of that. I thought you’d want to gather evidence or whatever.”