The Chat Room

*** For the Solitaire competition***

"Come chat. Why not? It isn’t saying ‘come take naked pictures on Chatroom’ or ‘come meet some physco stalker on Chatroom’ does it? No. So, very warily, you click the pop up..."


7. Chapter 7

“Who are you?” you whisper. You forget about running out from the bush and back home. Instead you stay put. Why? Because you’re frozen. Like you’re stuck with glue to the floor and you can’t escape.

“I’m Alex,” says the person. He shines the phone light more on his face and you feel yourself shrink back. Alex is a man, old possibly fifty, with greasy hair and a horrible, menacing face.

“No you’re not. Where is the boy from the pictures?” you say quietly, scared and shocked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” you say and you feel anger in your voice. Why? Why do that to someone? Trick them, make them think they had a friend, or possibly a boyfriend. That’s cruel, and mean and nasty.

“No darling. That boy is somewhere in this big wide world and you’re here with me in this small, small bush. Now, why don’t get down to it?”

“To what?” Your mind is screaming at you. Run! Panic! Danger! The man smiles and you can see his teeth, yellow and brown, disgusting.

Then he launches himself at you, squishing his face against yours. His breath his horrible and he tastes disgusting. You writhe and wriggle, lashing out and trying to push him off you. His hand are on your cheeks and they feel horrible. Rough, dirty, vicious.

“Lower,” he mumbles and you hit him hard, kicking him and trying to get away. You can feel his hands creeping down a little lower, to your neck, and you know where they are going. Surely someone has noticed the commotion in the bush? You remember how deserted this place can be.

Aiming another kick, it seems to hurt him. His hands come off your neck onto his stomach. The glue seems to have worn off and the alarm bells inside your mind are so loud you force yourself up and run.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.

You keep on going and you can hear the staggering clomps of the man behind you. No, you can’t let him get you. Taking a right, you try and direct yourself to the nearest police station. It seems far away, but you force yourself to go quicker.
The sounds of the man have died out but you take no risks. Your breath is heavy and your brain is screaming at you to stop and rest but you can’t. You must get to the police station, immediately.

Then there, up in front of you, is the station. You let out a thankful cry and hurtle yourself forwards.

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