[NSFW] I'm Being Followed nosleep

I’m being followed. I’m being followed and I don’t know when he started to follow be, but it’s been at least 20 minutes. I’m scared. I’m scared. I was walking back from my friend’s place after a couple hours of drinking and playing video games, and the last time I checked, the time was 11:30 PM. It must be at least midnight by now. I haven’t seen my stalker’s face yet. I don’t want to make it obvious that I know he’s there; who knows what he might do after he finds out that I know? I know. I know all right. I know that he’s there, and I know that he has something in his right and left pocket. I’ve seen from the mirrors on the sidewalk, and he has something in his right hand, something bold and bulky; perhaps a small plank of wood or a thick stick, but what about his left hand? His left hand is in his left pocket in his jacket. I’m not sure what he might have prepared for me. Could it be a gun? A knife? A handkerchief soaked in chloroform? I don’t know. I’m scared, and I don’t know what that stalker might do to me. Will be rape me? Murder me? Cut me into little pieces and store me in his refrigerator? What will he do? What will he do? What can I do? I need to do something. I need to do something quickly before he does something to me. I’m looking around. I’m about 30 minutes away from my condo, and that’s not enough time for me to do something to him before he does something to me. I’m still looking around, and yet I can’t seem to find anything. I can’t seem to find anything. I’m starting to think now, what can I do right now? I know. I’ll go to the dumpster five minutes away from where I am now. There’s probably something there for me to do something to him. I’ll do something to him. I’ll hurt him. I’ll go to the dumpster, find something I can use as a weapon and beat him. I’ll beat him before he beats me. In fact, I’ll kill him. That bastard is probably going to kill me, so I’ll kill him before he kills me. I’ll kill that bastard before he kills me. I’m almost there to the dumpster. I’m starting to speed up a little bit. As expected, the bastard steps up his pace. I know that you’re there, you bastard, I know. I know. I’m in the street corner where the dumpster is. I’m looking in the dumpster and I see a broken softball bat. A kid must’ve thrown it out when the grip on the handle became worn out. I stop in front of the dumpster. I stop in front of the dumpster. The bastard stops a couple meters behind me. I now proceed to pick up the softball bat. I’m looking back. I can’t see the bastard’s face due to the dark, but I don’t mind. That means that he probably can’t see me coming. I’m grinning now. I’m grinning now. I’m getting thrilled. For those 25 minutes he has been following me, probably thinking of all the possible ways he’ll kill me, and what he’ll do with my corpse. The tables have turned. The tables have turned. I sprint towards the poor bastard. Although I can’t see his face, I can sense that he’s surprised. Not scared, but surprised. He’ll be scared soon. He’ll be scared soon. When I knock him out unconscious, when I beat him until he starts bleeding from his eyes and nose, when I disassemble his limbs, when I cut his body into tiny little pieces and shove them in my refrigerator, he’ll be scared. He’ll be crying his poor bastard ass out. He’s crying his poor bastard ass out. I’m beating him with the softball bat. My hands are bloody from the crappy grip on the softball bat, but so is his face. I’m beating him. He’s bleeding from his eyes and nose. I stop for a moment. I stop for a moment. I kick his ribs as hard as I can, but quietly enough so irrelevant passerbies don’t hear. There is no reaction from the poor bastard’s cold-as-ice dead body. I grab him by his left hand, the hand that was in his left coat pocket and turned out to be empty, and drag him back to my condo. I dragged him back to my condo. I’m glad that nobody lives on my floor. I’ve had some neighbors in the past before, but they always moved out a couple weeks after their arrival due to the unbearable smell of rotten corpse. As if they know what rotten corpse smell like. I hang the poor bastard’s cold corpse onto a coat hanger. I take my knife from my kitchen drawer, and I proceed to cut his limbs. I’m chopping off his limbs. Never have cutting limbs felt so pleasant. I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad at all. After all, this would’ve been me if I haven’t acted so agile and smart. I’m now cutting his limbs into tiny, tiny pieces. I shove the small poor-bastard-limb pieces into my refrigerator. There isn’t much room left, but I shove some things out to make room for my new trophy. A trophy I made myself for being so agile, being so smart and reactive, because if it was not for myself, it would have been me, being the trophy. 

Submitted December 11, 2014 at 12:16AM by Mango_Bruh http://ift.tt/1x2XNqk nosleep