Chicken

I heard the door slam and turned around to see a man I didn't know standing inside my room. He was tall and large, large in the way that he took up the doorway, while his shadow drown out the light in the room. I stumbled backward, my calves hitting the the metal frame of the bed almost knocking me off my feet. I steadied my self and scanned the room for anything that could be of use to me. He stepped forward the weight of him the floor expressed loudly, creaking. I could feel my lungs about to burst, I was holding my breath as if the stillness of my chest would keep me un-noticed, though I was not... un-noticed. Nothing within arms reach was going to save me, I let my breath slowly and braced my self for the inevitable, what ever he wanted he was going to get and I couldn't do anything except scream. I opened my mouth and nothing happened, but he lurched forward hand out to clasp over my mouth and my legs went out from under me. He stumbled reaching for me and I screamed, not that it would do any good, no one was here and no one was expected to be home until tomorrow. It would be to late. I had fallen onto the bed and tried to roll off to the floor before he could grab me, his large hands grasped my shoulders tightly pinning me down. I could see his smile, crooked, eager and wanting. I brought my knee's up, but the weight of his body was pressed them into the metal of the frame and the pain shot up my thighs into my hips. I screamed again and his elbow pined my shoulder to the bed while his hand covered my mouth and most of my lower jaw. I closed my eyes as the tears welled up and everything stayed black. I opened my eyes and he was gone, I was safe in my bed and it was almost morning, the very first light was peeking through the window from over the hill.

I could still feel the weight of him on me as if he were still here. It had been months since the attack but he was here with me every night in my dreams.

I had survived if living in fear of his return was surviving. I hadn't told anyone, he'd threatened my life if I had and no one would listen anyways. I had always been a story teller. Making up fictitious friends. You know the boy who cried wolf or chicken little, well it's kinda where I got my nickname from. Everyone called me Chicken. The only good that came from my stories was that they were good and believable. So I wrote a lot. I wrote for my high school paper and I wrote for myself as well. I found solace in my stories, but now that I had a truth to tell no one would listen, so why would I bother trying. He had made it clear he knew me and that he would be watching me and I was terrified.