On the third day, the need for air, for movement, for anything other than this suffocating stillness, drove me out into a cold, persistent drizzle. I pulled my hood up, keeping my head down, a pathetic attempt at invisibility. The rain soaked through my jacket within minutes, the chill seeping into my bones. It felt appropriate.
I had only walked a block when the feeling returned, that primal, skin-crawling sensation of being watched. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn't want to look. I couldn't bear it. I quickened my pace, my wet sneakers slapping against the slick pavement. A glance in a shop window's reflection confirmed it. There. The grey hoodie. A steady, relentless presence half a block back.
A switch flipped inside me. The fear, the guilt, the helplessness—it all coalesced into a sudden, reckless fury. I was tired of being the prey. I was tired of being afraid.
