The Guy in the Trench Coat

The Guy in the Trench Coat

Erin Burns carefully lifted the lace curtain, grasping it as if it would keep her safe; she peered out the window into the dark night. The rain was pouring, drenching the outside world. Erin knew somebody was outside her house. She strained to see in the darkness. Suddenly, she heard a loud bang and gasped. The curtain slid from her stiff fingers. Erin pressed herself against the wall and looked around the room with her dark, violent eyes wide in fear. Nothing made a sound; nothing made a movement.

Suddenly, all of the nightmares flew back to Erin and hit her in the face. She used to dream about a stalker, making her life miserable. She would wake up each morning with her shirt on backwards, hot, salty sweat surrounding her head and drenching the pillow. Her hair would be tangled in her face with her hands clenching the blankets. One night, the nightmares stopped. She woke up one morning almost smiling. Her shirt was forwards, the pillow was dry, and she had no memories of a dark guy in a trench coat with a gun.

A shiver flew down Erin's spine. She began to breathe deeper and deeper. Her hands were ice cold, flat against the smooth wall. Sweat soaked her hair and covered her face. Every long minute, the wet salt rolled down her face and fell onto her flowered pajama shirt. Each heartbeat was like a drum, growing in sound, pounding in her ears. Cold tears started mixing with the hot sweat. The mix seeped into her mouth through her lips. The taste was disgusting but Erin didn't dare spit it out.

The front door opened with a small squeak. Erin whimpered just below audible. She dropped down to the floor, she felt almost a little safer touching the soft, fuzz-balls of carpet. She crept as carefully and as silently as a mouse over to an over-stuffed chair; but it was too late. She saw a flash of the worn, brown trench coat. The echo of a gunshot rang in her ears. Erin clutched her heart feeling the cold, gushing, blood, feeling the very last weak heartbeat.