For a week, you see nothing of Johnny. If not for the fact that you are constantly on edge, just waiting for him to show up again, you might consider it the best week of your life. You are exceptionally productive in an attempt to distract yourself from that glorious sense of impending doom. Johnny's return is not a matter of 'if', only of 'when'. A thousand times over you have considered calling the police and arranging a set up to catch him, once and for all. Something tells you it would be wildly unsuccessful, though, and you have learned that trusting your instincts has its benefits as of late.

You loathe the feeling that he is lying in wait to make his next move. It is not unreasonable to wonder what you are to him. Perhaps you are nothing more than a prey animal he intends to toy with, before calling off the game and snapping your neck. You don't have the time to worry as much as you want to. Your life, and the lives of others, continue to exist whether you are immobilized by fear or not. You have to get over it. If he shows up at your door, that canary-eating grin on his face again, then you will have to accept that for what it is.

Your impending doom, that's what it is.

How unfortunate.

"I mean, it's not like he's going to just.... kill you out in public, with everyone watching." You say out loud to yourself as you step out of the shower, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You jump slightly, and you have to feel stupid for being startled by your own reflection. "He- he won't do that. You should go to that dinner. It's good for your reputation."

This one-sided dialogue with yourself does very little to soothe your nerves. That said, you have no intention of stopping. Helpful or not, the sound of a voice, even your own, relaxes you enough that you feel you should keep going.

"You're going to go and have a nice time with people from work after your shift ends, and then come home, and go to bed. Nothing will happen." You wipe the clinging water from the mirror and look yourself in the eye. "Nothing will happen."

--

The dinner is, as one might expect, nothing short of very awkward. You don't talk to these people, and you're sure they simply invited you out of obligation. As soon as you take your seat beside one of the secretaries- her name is either Shanda or Sharon, you're certain of it- you have the distinct feeling that no one particularly wanted you here. Still, the group brings you comfort like you haven't felt for some time now. They chatter on about things that you don't care about, but you smile and nod when its appropriate.

Shandron, as you have dubbed her, asks you about your recent article. "What was that like, seeing what you did?"

"Uh, well..." Of course someone had to bring it up, just as you were beginning to relax. You wish curses upon Shandron for asking that simple question and making you relive the incident. You don't call it 'the murders', or 'the crime', it is always going to be 'the incident'. "Pretty terrifying, I guess. I don't know, I think... I've blocked a lot of it out, ha." You laugh to keep the mood light and take a sip of your drink.

"Was he cute?" Shandron inquires.

You regret taking that sip, because it immediately winds up in your nose when you hear that. The alcohol burns, and you stammer out a 'w-what?'

"Shanda!" One of your other co-workers exclaims. At least you aren't the only one who thinks that's a highly inappropriate question to ask.

"Well, you know what they say about serial killers. Aren't lots of them charming and attractive? That's how they lure people in, right?"

'Mass murderer', you think, 'Very different.'

"I mean," Now you have to give an answer. Now Shanda (may the gods smite her) is making you actually think about Johnny. He's not charming, no, he's abrasive and rude and inconsiderate. You can't mention that, though, because that would imply you've have extended interaction with him. As for whether he's attractive or not, you could have gone your entire life without giving that a moment of thought. "I-I guess so. I wasn't paying attention to that, really." You shrug, trying to make it casual. Nothing about this could ever be casual.

"Knew it." She nods sagely, and you hope that this is the end of that conversation.

The table falls into awkward silence. If you hadn't showed up, they would have had a much better time.

Eventually, they begin to chatter on about your boss and how he's been acting weird lately, like something's bothering him. You go back to what you were doing: smiling and nodding.

It works.

--

"When the fuck is winter over..." You mumble into your scarf, wrapped tightly around your neck and pulled up over your nose. Getting out of that restaurant was the best feeling you could have had, until the cold and discomfort took hold. Now, you almost want to go crawling back inside, pleading to stay the night in its candle-lit, atmospheric warmth.

You walk home with your hands shoved in your coat pockets and your eyes down on the sidewalk, watching for ice. The streetlights are dim, and no one is around but you. A feeling of unease takes over. You shouldn't be walking around alone like this.

Crime rates are high, the world is dangerous, and you are alone in the dark.

You walk a little bit faster, thinking that you just have to get home. All you have to do is get home alive, and you will not make this mistake again.

"Hey!" Someone shouts at you from the side, and instead of just keeping on your way like you should have, you look over.

They have a gun. You have nothing. They are quickly approaching and yet your feet stay rooted into the ground. Your fists are clenched at your sides as fear digs its tendrils into your body.

"What have you got? How much money?" They ask.

You stammer out something unidentifiable and back up slightly. They aim the gun right at your face and yell something that you don't quite make out with your head spinning in circles.

You follow through with the next thought that manifests clearly in your head. Your clenched fist raises, and slams directly into the side of the man's face. Pain skyrockets up your arm and you almost cry out, wondering if you broke something, but you keep yourself together out of the need to show your superiority. While he's distracted by the punch you delivered, you take off running. You run until the cold air burns your lungs and skin to the point its nearly unbearable.

When you finally dare to look behind yourself, there is no one there. With chills running down your spine, not just from the cold, you finally make it home.

Sitting on your doorstep is Johnny.

You consider turning around and letting that guy shoot you to put you out of your misery.

"You're here!" Johnny lights up when he sees you, and you know its too late for your plan 'b'. You have to deal with him.

"Yeah." You reply, coughing into your elbow. You feel like you might be getting sick, but that's the least of your worries now. You walk up to your door, brushing past him as he stands. All you can do is assume he intends to follow you inside, and your assumption proves to be very correct. When you open the door, he is right behind you.

"It's been cold sitting outside." He remarks, striding into your living room.

"You didn't have to sit out there." You say in reply, taking off your coat and hanging it on the rack by the door.

"Yeah, but then I might have missed you getting back." He says, and you wonder if he ever hears himself speak, because you think that if he did he would have to know how ridiculous that sounds.

"Okay, if you say so."

"Saw that run-in you had earlier." Johnny sits down on your couch, pressed against the armrest. He kicks his feet up on your coffee table, and you suddenly feel like making a rule about no shoes on the furniture.

"W-what run-in?"

"With the guy and the gun."

"You- you saw?!" You exclaim, pointing an accusing finger at him. For a moment, you forget that he could kill you if he wanted to. "And you didn't do anything?!"

Johnny looks hurt by your outburst, but you're beyond caring about his precious, delicate feelings. "You had it under control. You socked him in the face."

"Yeah, but you could've-!" You drop your hand back to your side and sigh. "Whatever."

"S-" Johnny starts, then never finishes. Maybe he was going to apologize. You'll never know for certain.

You kick off your shoes and sit down on the couch, pointedly the opposite side of him. You both look like you want nothing to do with each other based on posture alone. That's fine with you.

After some time of sitting in silence, you turn on the TV. You had planned on going to bed when you got home, but you aren't going to be able to sleep with Johnny within a mile of your house, let alone inside of it with you.

"Do you like reality TV?" He asks, glancing over at you.

"Not really. I like... well, whatever's on." You shrug, not wanting to go into more detail with him than necessary. The more silence consumes this place, the better.

Johnny seems agitated. Something is clearly bothering him, but you don't want to know what it is. Maybe he's barely able to restrain his urge to decapitate you. You just don't know what it is, and that's the safest way for things to be.

"I'm tired. I haven't slept for a long time now."

"Maybe you should try sleeping more often." You remark, offering the simplest solution on the table.

"No way." Johnny says, and leaves it at that.

Time goes on, with the two of you indulging in some quality television. What is airing now is a documentary about a killer notorious for wearing the skin of his victims. You really would prefer to not give him any ideas, but he seems to be hyperfocused on it now and you won't be the one to distract him.

After some time, you feel yourself begin to doze off. You pinch your leg, trying to keep yourself from getting too tired. If you fall asleep with Johnny next to you, it might be the last thing that you ever do.

Very suddenly, you feel a weight slump against you. In a panic, you very nearly jump away.

You turn your head and your face ends up in Johnny's hair. He's out cold.

You wonder how long he's been awake to have passed out like this. All you know for certain is that he's collapsed against you and you're scared to move and wake him up. What if he's angry with you? Angry enough to end your life? Perhaps he will be angrier to find out you let him sleep. You aren't sure, and it's becoming increasingly more difficult to care.

After a long time, you can no longer keep yourself awake staring at the TV. The sound of documentary-style voices lull you into a relaxed state, even though they're detailing gruesome events, not unlike the one you witnessed.

Your last thought before you fall asleep, head resting against Johnny's, is that you are very warm.