She Wasn’t Alone
Fiction: A girl is walking home late at night and realises a stranger is following her.
Jenny and I left the pub and walked to the corner of South Street, chatting. From here she would head into town, whereas I lived on the outskirts. We tried to pack in all the evening’s gossip during that couple of minute stroll. It couldn’t be done. If only we were neighbours. Neither of us liked walking home alone.
We hugged under the light of the lamppost, promised to catch up the following day and went our separate ways.
I smiled as I marched up the hill towards the church, thinking of Jim and how his eyes crinkled as he spoke. He’d finally taken my number, so my heart was full of hope. I’d liked him for months. Shame he wasn’t in the same bar with Jen and me when we left as I didn’t get to say goodbye. Maybe I could have bagged myself a kiss!
The thought of this filled my mind as I walked past the graveyard, the dim lights from the church created shadows all around the tomb stones. The chilly wind seemed to pick up so I raised the collar of my coat, tilting my head down as I continued up the hill.
I was at least ten minutes away from the main street now. There were fewer illuminations and houses over this side of town. I would normally wear my ear buds, but my phone was very low on charge so I hadn’t risked plugging them in. I suppose that was why I noticed the echo of footsteps a little way behind me.
Still walking, I glanced over my shoulder. Difficult to tell as thankfully they had not caught up, but it sure looked like a stranger.
I quickened my pace. The cottage where I stayed with my parents was at least another five minutes away.
Damn. The stranger’s steps grew faster, too. I didn’t want to run. It could make the situation worse. I mean after all it was unlikely he was following me. He probably lived down the close.
To be on the safe side, I skipped the shortcut — an alleyway — felt for the door keys in my pocket, slipping the longest one between my fore and middle fingers of my right hand, while taking long strides. A slight sheen of sweat covered my forehead and my pulse quickened.
It was then I noticed the silence. Just me breathing and the dull thud of my leather boots on the pavement. I turned to look. Nobody. Strange, not sure where he could have gone, maybe up the cul-de-sac. Anyhow, no time to worry about that. I’d be home soon. A hot cup of cocoa with my mum before going to bed with Timmy the cat for company.
I took my phone out to check the time when oh... my… god… someone grabbed my arm.
Shit, I’d put the keys back in my pocket
“Let me go.” I lashed out with my other hand and forearm, striking the man around his head, scuffling to pull away.
But he was far stronger and enveloped me in both his arms. I felt sick and dizzy. Scared. When…
“Lisa. Stop. It’s me, Jim.”
Unable to focus. I froze in my tracks.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Finally, his voice cut through my panic.
I took a sharp intake of breath, wiped my eyes and looked up. It was Jim. Of course, it was Jim’s voice. Jim embracing me. I fell against him.
“I thought… I thought you were…”
“I am so sorry. Ben told me you’d left and I didn’t want you having to walk home alone. So I followed you up the hill, then nipped along the alley to get ahead.”
It was such a relief. Tears streamed down my face. I felt like a wimp.
“Oh my, don’t cry. I have to say, I don’t normally have such a dreadful effect on girls.”
That made me smile a little. Now I just needed to stop shaking.
I exhaled to calm myself before Jim tilted my face towards his. He searched my eyes, making sure I was OK, then — he kissed me.
THE END
Shared for the Microcosm Followed prompt.
Every time a woman goes out alone at night, she is on alert.
Not occasionally… Every time.
It’s normalized.
Reinforced from a young age.
Women are told to be careful.
Stay together.
Don’t go out after dark.
I wonder if men realise this.
Writing Perspectives
I wrote this story a few months ago during a 100k word challenge, when I was experimenting with perspective. My default is first person - like the story above — especially for darker fiction. It pulls the reader in — locks them inside the narrator’s head, so everything feels immediate and personal.
Then I read Crime and Punishment and realised you can get that same intimacy in close third person — sometimes with even more control. That sent me down a rabbit hole. I started noticing how many of the novels I admire aren’t omniscient third — that pulled-back, observing feel — but locked tightly into one character’s mind and experience.
It’s still “he” or “she,” but the reader only gets to see, feel, and know what that character does. It’s limited to one person’s journey, but you’re inside their thoughts, their reactions, their version of events — without stepping away. It commits and gives the immediacy of first person, but with a subtle distance.
While down my perspective rabbit hole I decided to write one story in three perspectives. You have just read it in first person.
I have also written this same tale in close third - click below to read for free:
And omniscient third - click the banner RUN
Which do you prefer?
(This story was created during the 100k word Koala Quill three month challenge. Find out more about the platform here.)
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Or …
I felt her fear in your words!
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