A shatterred mirror. Each piece smashed, scattered around. Different perspectives of the world, broken for different reasons and in their own way. Slowly and carefully, we must pick up the pieces, attempt to piece the mirror back together.
*contains swearing and adult topics*


4. Lila

The rough carpet makes a scratchy indent on her face as she rubs her cheek, lifting her head from the floor. All is silent around her, the house cold and dark. A cold bottle is clutched between her numb fingers; a small amount of alcohol at the bottom of the green glass. Her eyes flick to the window, curtains pulled half-heartedly across the street outside, but a thin sliver of light is still visible.

He is there, she knows it. Always there, always watching. Never giving her a moment of peace.

They were walking out of school, chattering about the science lesson previously. "Why the fuck do we need to learn about atoms? I'm never going to see one!"

"Haha," she had replied, rifling through her pockets for her phone. "That's such a terrible joke."

Laughing, she elbowed her into the wall. "I've got my geek on today." They walked in silence for a while, both absorbed in the small lit-up screens held in front of them, typing responses to friends seen only a few minutes ago.

She looked behind her. There was a man, walking slowly behind them on the other side of the street. Perfectly normal. But he was looking straight at them. As he saw her turn, he quickly looked down at his shoes. She knew he was looking at them. "Let's go down here," she said loudly to her friend. Pulling her arm, they went down a small alleyway, that led to nowhere. There was no way the man would need to go down there.

But surely enough, he smoothly crossed the road and followed them down. 

"Where are we going?" her friend hissed.

Chancing a quick look behind, she whispered to her friend. "I think that man's following us." Her friend looked back.

"Shit. Smart idea coming down here, by the way, Sherlock. Now he can dump our bodies and no-one will know."

She inhaled quickly. "He's not going to kill us." But even she didn't believe herself.

The end of the alley was in sight, crowds of girls from the nearby private school flooding out of the gates. "Quick, walk on and we can blend in with them," she whispered.

"Okay," she replied. They hurried forwards, then quickly slipped into the stream of pupils. With their similar uniforms they were quickly enveloped by the chattering crowd, pushing them onwards. She squeezed her friend's hand, returning the reassuring smile she gave.

Braving a quick look, her head turned back. The man was there, towering above everyone else. His head swivelled from side to side, searching for them. Then his eyes met hers. Cold and grey, they bored into her. Slowly and deliberately, he winked.

She looks around at the silent scene surrounding her. Nearly everyone is passed out or asleep, too out of it to notice her. She wonders what happened that evening; her memory is too much of a smudgy blur to remember anything. There are vague recollections of dancing, of boys, of drinks. Of lots of drinks.

Slowly she pushes herself up, using the wall to steady her.

The world turned temporarily dark as she pulled her thin cotton shirt over her head, walking over to her wardrobe to pull out her pyjama top. Suddenly, she heard a small click. Like the press of a button, the clicking of a pen, the tap of a keyboard. With a quick glance around her room she ascertained that it wasn't from anything in there. 

Again, the click repeated.

Curious, she opened her bedroom and checked down the landing, but the noise only got quieter.


She walked towards the window, and the clicking became louder.


The glass was misty from her breath as she peered through it, using her palm to wipe away the moisture. It was a dark night but the sky was clear as she looked out, searching for the source of the clicking.


It seemed to come from below, so she looked down. A figure was stood on the street outside her window, a small black object clutched in his or her hands, pointed up at her window. 


It was a camera. She gasped, stumbling backwards and covering her chest with her arms, suddenly aware that she was only wearing a bra. Tugging on a hoodie she ducked out of sight of the window, lying on her bed. Beating erratically, her heart seemed to be bursting out of her chest.

She was certain that it was the man from last week. The dark figure she had seen was tall, and although she was unable to make out many other features, she somehow knew it. Placing her hands on the cool window-ledge, she slowly moved her head up until she could just see through the window. 


Her scream was shrill as she stood up, pulling the curtains shut. When she was certain that no light could get through she clambered into her bed, pulling the covers over her head and sitting huddled, rocking back and forth. Her pulse was racing, breath coming quickly, blood pulsing through her veins.

He was out there, she knew it. 

A plastic cup appears underneath her foot and she stumbles, grabbing a low table to regain her balance. She has to check, to find out if he's there. Even if she knows the answer.

Making her way slowly across the room, she reaches the window. It's impossible to see anything through the small gap. Her breaths are short again, just like they were that night. She has to find out if he's there, but she doesn't want to know the answer.

Shaking hands reach out and grasp the edges of the thick crimson drapes, trembling as they slowly push them to the side. The gap widens, revealing the street outside. Now she can see if he's there, or not.

The next morning she was exhausted, only having gotten asleep in the early hours of day, the image of the man on the street burned into her memory. She was going to tell her mum, to stop it, to get rid of whoever he is.

"Mum?" Her voice echoed around the house, nobody replying. She assumed that she'd gone out to work. Walking over to the desk, she picked up a small envelope addressed to her, that must have come earlier that day. In scrawled handwriting her name was written, though no address was given. 

Something dark caught her eye from inside the envelope. As she tipped it into her outstretched hand, short strands of hair fell into her palm. She shook it even more until none were left and she was left with a handful of mahogany hair, each piece around four inches long. Her fingers trembled as she held a piece up to her own hair, breathing sharply as the colours blended into one another. 

Gasping, she sprinted over to the mirror, fingers grasping the lock of hair next to her face. Cut short. Shorter than usual, shorter than it was last night. A small note remained within the envelope, which she pulled out.

Tell no-one.

He got into her house. From outside, he got into her house. He came into her room. While she was asleep. He cut off a lock of her hair and sent it to her. He told her not to tell anybody. What he would do if she did was pretty obvious.

The street is grey, a plastic bag blowing past in the light breeze and a tabby cat trotting along the pavement. He is standing there, on the other side of the road. Staring straight at the window, straight at her. Slowly, he moves his hand up and waves, grinning a toothy smile at her.

She sinks down to the floor, a sob breaking out of her, tears spilling down her cheeks.

He can get to her. Wherever she goes, he can get to her.

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