That weirdo down the street with his beady eyes and bushy brows that are way too high, keeps peeping at me through the cracks in the curtains at number 14.
My breath increases as blood pumps through my veins, I start to become dizzy but there’s no stopping now, I have to keep walking and make it past the house as fast I can before he comes through his front door. My legs wobble, my heart is about to explode in fear, I know he looks on for he is a creep. Was that a movement at his door? Was it opening? I never stop to find out and as habit I quicken my pace and practically run way past numbers 16 and 17.
He never comes out but there’ll be a day he will, a day when I’m not expecting it, he’ll bring those creepy eyes out his door; God knows I won’t stick around to find out as long as my legs are strong and sturdy, I’ll keep running past that house.
Why would he stare so? Doesn’t he know it is rude? To keep peering when you obviously know you’ve been seen. Doesn’t he know he makes my life a nightmare every time I walk past his house. If there were alternative routes I would happily use those; but there are none. I’m forced to live this nightmare every time I walk out my front door.
I have called and complained to the police not once, not twice, quite a lot of times until my little clock chimes. They haven’t believed me though (the police I mean); they have pushed my hysterics aside classifying it as childish thoughts of an over active mind. They are not!!! I sulk. Go there to number 14 and tell him to stop.
I cannot walk down my street anymore without the thoughts of gore, slowly climbing from the pit of my stomach making me sore. Why can’t he just go away and leave me in peace to proudly strut my legs down my street.
I cannot take it anymore I cannot; I’ll have to swallow my fears and face his eerie stares. I put my coat on and brush my hair, open the door and breathe in sweet summer air, letting a sigh that’ll probably bring my mother down the stairs, I step out of the front door to face my nightmare.
Just as I get close to number 14, I increase my pace as I normally do, but in front of his door is a girl of eight with a cute curly hair do; in her right arm is a fluffy teddy bear with beady eyes and bushy brows way too high. I laugh silently at my misconception and strut happily down street knowing that the wierdo down the street is really cute and absolutely sweet.