Predictably, you have not slept well since what the police have referred to as 'the incident'.

The memory of it haunts you, gnawing away at your mind until you're left numb and without the capacity for thought. You are overtaken with fear, always looking over your shoulder and expecting to be met with that grin again. No matter what you try to tell yourself, you can't shake the residual nightmares you've received from being the sole survivor. It comes with a level of guilt. You did nothing to earn your survival. No, you cowered while carnage took place. Trying to stop it, being the hero, that didn't apply to you. Your cowardice had earned you survival, that was all there was to it. Whether you had stirred up some semblance of pity in the heart of that man, you couldn't be certain. Though the question continues to plague you, you don't want to encounter him again to get your answer. You'd rather spend the rest of your life wondering than see him again.

Your investigative nature is unrelenting, though, and you reach a state of discontent with your lack of answers. Not enough to seek him out, no, never. You have a life to live.

One that involves turning in the article you had written on 'the incident'. The stack of papers, disastrous and unedited, seems to stare unrelentingly at you from across the room. You aren't certain how to feel about it. In the moment, with the adrenaline still coursing through your veins and the fresh feeling of survival digging its claws into you, it had sounded like the best idea you had ever had. Now, you have to question the morality of capitalizing on the deaths of that many people. This is a question that should have struck you much sooner, something you are aware of, but not without a level of guilt in accompaniment.

A towel is tied tightly around your body, as you draw your knees up to your chest on your bedroom floor. The chill of the air leaves you with chicken skin, and pruned fingers drag over the bumps on your arms. This is what being a journalist is all about, is it not? You had once dreamed of detailing crimes, the sort that leave mothers clinging to their children and the elderly ranting of the state of the world. It left you with a faint thrill, like you were privy to things that no one else could be, and it was your choice to share it with the public. The reality is that crimes are crimes, vile and unwarranted, and you are nothing more than the bearer of bad news.
Maybe the bland celebrity scandals weren't so bad after all.

You finally push yourself up off the ground and dig through your drawers for nightclothes. The thoughts won't leave you be. Is attention what this killer seeks? Or is it all about the thrill of the moment, blood and knives and glory?

You shudder, feeling the phantom sensation of that knife on your leg. Whatever the motivation might be, you have a job to do. If you spur him on further, you don't want to be morally responsible for that. No one would want to be.

Violent crimes are becoming increasingly common in your city. The place is a disaster, nothing short of a hell-hole, but you don't want to see it devolve into murders and chaos. All you want is for it to be better, not destroyed. Whether or not that has ever legitimately been an option, you aren't certain. You aren't so sure of anything, not anymore.

You put on the fuzziest pair of pajama pants you own and your biggest sweatshirt and decide that tomorrow, you are turning in that article.

The feeling of something awful and sinister settles in your stomach.

You make the executive decision not to think about it.

--
The morning greets you like a lovingly delivered slap in the face.

Your first conscious thought is 'shit, I'm late', and late are you ever. The speed at which a person can pull themselves together when the situation calls for it is astounding, and you make it out the door in under five minutes. Record time, you think, though not without a trace of bitterness in the mix. You had almost hoped a near-death experience would bring you a bit more joy in life, maybe motivate you to chase your dreams and shoot for the stars, all that shit, but that has not been the case so far. You have remained just as disdainful as ever.

Bummer.

The world is a bustling place. Everyone has their own thoughts, and they spare not one of them for you, it seems. Your messy hair, your hastily picked clothes, none of that matters to them. In a way, there is comfort in being so small and insignificant. It makes what happened to you seem like such a small thing in the grand scheme of the world itself. That's exactly the kind of thought you needed to get your morning in gear. The ever-pleasant thought of 'I don't matter' becomes your mantra. Your capitalist employer would be proud.

In the bustle of it all, you almost don't notice your worst nightmare taking a leisurely stroll. 'Almost' meaning you do certainly notice, and your heart jumps all the way into your throat before stopping altogether. What is he doing anywhere near you? You survived, you aren't supposed to have to see him again. Your bag suddenly feels heavy with the story that you have written about him. Because he is real, he is so painfully real. He does not belong to a fiction that you have created, not anymore.

The man sees you across the street and waves, as if you are friends. Your body feels frozen in place, but you manage a wavering smile and a single wave back, before you scurry on your way.
On the subway, you chew your lip to bits and have the constant compulsion to look behind you. There would be nothing there but concrete walls speeding by, you know that, but you can't tell that to your pounding heart.

Should you report having seen him? Despite the detailed description you gave, no one has been able to track him down. Elusive, they called him, and you don't doubt that's the truth. He strikes you as a slippery, slimy kind of guy, but that isn't the kind of thing you would want to say to his face.

You try to put your focus on what matters. Work. Your life, your future, that's what's important. You can't remain occupied with this forever, though you think somewhere deep down that you may be attempting to push yourself a little bit too hard into healing that just isn't prepared to happen.

You'll get over it eventually, you're sure of it.
--
After profusely apologizing for being late, though you made it sooner than you expected, you get to work. Fixing up your mess of an article is no small task, because it was written fresh out of the scene of the crime and with a thousand thoughts rushing through your head. It was from a different time, you suppose, one where you had a pounding heart and teary eyes and not that unmistakable loathing for everything around you. All that you can do with it is manage, and you have to be content with that. You have to be content with your own perceived mediocrity if you're going to finish this. No one else was there to bear witness to what happened; no survivors anyway. Not even the pretty girl with her hair in dozens of braids who blushed when she gave you your drink and your hands brushed made it out of there. It's not fair. It's not fair that you made it, and you know that. This is what they called survivor's guilt, you think. You were warned this would happen to you if you dwelled on 'the incident' for too long.

Now that the feelings have come, you aren't sure how you ever felt anything but this debilitating guilt.

You tell yourself to focus. This has to get finished today. You stifle your emotions and keep going, because this is still your job and this is still what you have to do. What you committed to, that is, by living through something like that. They want you to talk about it. So, you'll talk about it. The people thirst for knowledge of all the worst aspects of the world to confirm their own suspicions that things have gone to shit, and it's your job to confirm them.

What a life you have come to live.

--

Time passes you by much the same way, days into a week, week into two, and your article is published. For once, you don't buy a copy of the paper that it appears in. You know that you should, because you have kept clippings of all the articles you've written, but you aren't sure you want this one. Winter is at its peak now, and you spend all the time you can inside. It isn't entirely due to the weather and you know it. That's a nice excuse to have, though. When spring comes and everything comes alive, bright and breathing, you won't have that excuse anymore. You'll still be just as dead, a wilted flower with no chance of resurrection, and the thought of it terrifies you. You can't live like this forever.

At the moment, though, you aren't sure how you ever lived any other way.
A knocking comes upon your door. You immediately want to hide, because you weren't expecting visitors and you don't want visitors. The knocking continues, though, and you finally get up to answer the door. You aren't dressed for company, you think. You're nothing short of a disaster, and all the misery in the world doesn't keep you from being self-aware.

It occurs to you, just as you open the door, that you don't know anyone around here well enough for them to have your address.

"Hey."

Your stomach turns over as you make eye contact with him. God, you knew this guy would catch up with you eventually. You're going to die.

"Ah!" You yelp, and slam the door shut. "Go away!"

"What are you being so rude for? I just came to see you, that's not a crime."

"I-I don't know you!" You brandish an umbrella from beside the door as a weapon. If you're going down, you're going down swinging. "We're not friends, go away!"

The doorknob turns. You didn't lock the fucking door. You nearly faint like a little old lady on the spot.

He invites himself in, because of course mass murderers have no manners, and you hold your umbrella out in front of you.

"Are you going to hit me with that?" He asks, pointing at your makeshift weapon.

"Uh, well," You take one step back as he takes one step forward, closing the door behind himself.
He doesn't wait for you to answer. All he does is walk around you to look at your living room, clearly observing his surroundings. Maybe looking for something, but you don't know what.

"You-you shouldn't be here." You can't help but stammer in his presence, like a sixth grader with a stupid crush, except without the crush and with more mortal terror.

"Your house is nice. My name's Johnny, by the way."

And with that, your nightmare has given itself a name.