Content warning. May contain spoilers.

homicide, stalking

a short story by Jule Heyen

She couldn’t shake the feeling of someone’s eyes on her, following her every move. She couldn’t see anyone, but she felt them. She felt watched, stalked.
‘Is anyone there?’ She asked.
No sound, no response. Just darkness around her.

It looked as if she was floating. Her arms were stretched above her head, her eyes closed and her head thrown back. Her legs were stretched in an almost inhuman over-split, the knees extended and the feet pointed. She seemed to be stuck in mid-air, frozen in time. It was dark in the theatre, the lights dimmed but for emergency exits and stage lights.

The stage itself – lit brightly, empty but for the dancer leaping gracefully – seemed like an entirely different world. It painted a stunning picture, the dancer in her pure white dress, the skirt see-through to show her long legs, alone in the black box that was the stage. The light reflected off her costume, her skin. She was ethereal.

She kept feeling those eyes on her. Predatory.
She no longer only felt watched. She felt hunted. Someone was after her.
She started to run.

This needs to be preserved, I thought, this beauty. It should be plastered all over the world, every wall, every phone or TV or computer, everywhere. The black and white contrast, the skirt, flying up around her waist, the elegantly raised arms. It should be kept forever. Then, just a second later, it was over. Gravity had decided to set in again. The dancer landed gracefully, continuing her way over the stage, before sinking down into a deep bow.
‘Brava!’ I shouted, ‘Brava!’
I stood up, giving her the applause she deserved. Yes, I decided, I would save this moment. Preserve it. Forever.

She ran faster. Turned around to see if the shadow was still behind her. Thought better of it and kept running.
She needed to get away. She hadn’t seen who it was that was after her, but she knew they were there.
Following.
Hunting.

I got to work immediately after the performance, gathering materials. White fabric, the softest I could find. Nails, small ones, as to not distract from the picture.

When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she screamed. She kept fighting but the figure was stronger than her. She kept fighting, kept struggling, even when she fell down and hit her head.
I can’t let them win, she thought.
I won’t go down without a fight.

The next step was sketching out a pose. Based on my memory of that night, framed by stage lights and bowing red curtains.
Not the pictures the newspaper printed. They could never capture her glory.
Her power.
Not the way I could.

She watched her blood soak into the fabric of her clothes. Saw the figure watching her. Manic. Obsessive.
‘Don’t worry,’ they said, ‘I am prepared. It will be perfect.’
She tried to crawl away, but couldn’t find the strength.
‘This one is just for me,’ she heard the figure say. The soft touch of hands on her waist was the last thing she felt before unconsciousness.

Yes, I decided, this was the way it needed to be. Arms above her head, eyes closed, legs stretched out.
My plans don’t always work out. But this one did. My finest work yet.
It wouldn’t be seen all over the world, I decided. They didn’t deserve to see this.
This was only for me.

It looked as if she was floating. Her arms were stretched above her head, her eyes closed and her head thrown back. Her legs were stretched in an almost inhuman over-split, the knees extended and the feet pointed. She seemed to be stuck in mid-air, frozen in time.
That was the way they found her, days later.
Floating, held up by chains.

Preserved forever.