"You signed me up for summer classes?" I stared at my mother in disbelief. She didn't look up from the stove, staring down at the frying pan like it held the elixir of life and not just scrambled eggs. 

"You need it. You didn't have good grades in biology last semester."

"Yeah," I tried to keep my voice even, "but I'm not failing. Summer classes are for people who are failing."

"That's not true." She scraped at the eggs, still refusing to look at me. "It will be good for you. Keep you out of trouble."

There it was. I could feel my jaw tense. "So this is because of the bus thing. Now I'm being punished for it."

Mom was silent, gripping the spatula tightly. She had that look on her face, stubborn and rigid. Discussing this was not an option. I got up from the table and turned for the door.

"Lucas, your breakfast."

"I'm not hungry anymore; I'm going for a walk." I ignored her protests. There wasn't much she could do about it, since it was Saturday. Summer school didn't start yet. A few more days of freedom.

The sidewalks were empty this early in the morning, except one old lady walking her dog way down the street. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling of someone watching me. It was the prickling feeling on the back of my neck that did it. It gave me the willies, and I darted a look over my shoulder, examining bushes and trees for someone lurking there. If anyone was watching me from their house it would probably look like I was paranoid. Was I being paranoid? My palms felt sweaty when I thought about it. What if I did have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Did that mean I was going crazy? I think the idea of being batshit crazy was way scarier then someone actually stalking me. At least if someone was actually out to get me, I could call the police. If it was all in my head, then...well, I was screwed.

My shoes shuffling on the sidewalk and the distant sound of car doors slamming and dogs barking were really the only noises, so when I began to hear the sound of heavy footfalls behind me I turned slightly. The man was walking down a driveway I'd just passed, a heavyset balding guy in his fifties in a dark blue bath robe and slippers. I paused, double take confirming that he was heading straight for me. His jaw hung slack and he staggered when his foot hit a dip in the driveway. He didn't even look down. Was he sleepwalking?

"Are you okay?" I took a step toward him, but he said nothing, and as he got closer I noticed his eyes and a sick, clammy feeling rolled over me. They were empty, glazed over and at the same time – locked on me and only me. He continued to stagger foreword and I noticed with a sinking stomach that he held his left hand close to his hip, where a large kitchen knife reflected the morning sun at me.

"What are you doing?" My voice shook. 

I knew I should move, but my feet were stuck to the sidewalk. The bathrobed man continued to advance until he was five feet away. I could reach out and touch him. He lunged without warning and I saw a close up of his slack-muscled face, the dirty five o'clock shadow, the piece of food in his teeth. 

The knife glittered as it arced through the air. Something connected with my left shoulder, sending me sprawling painfully onto the sidewalk, scraping my elbows and hands bloody. The man's charge took him forward and his foot drove into my gut, making me jerk and cough, curling inward to protect myself. 

My attacker pitched forward, landing on his face and I heard the sharp clatter of the knife skid across the pavement. I scrambled up, gasping for air, desperate to get up before he did. I was on my feet, backing away, nearly falling in my haste to get away. My stomach throbbed, and my hands and elbows stung like mad. The man wasn't moving. He just lay there on the sidewalk on his face.

I paused. Was he dead? What had just happened? I'd felt someone shove me. I looked around nervously, but the street was completely empty. Even the old lady was gone now. No dog walkers in sight. A groan jerked my attention back to the man on the sidewalk. He was waking up. I braced myself to run, but when he began to struggle to sit up I stopped. His eyes were awake now, confused and startled, but awake.

"What's going on?" He muttered and clutched his forehead. "My head is killing me. Did I fall getting the newspaper?"

I looked around the sidewalk in panic. No knife. Obviously it had been kicked into the grassy ditch somewhere along here. 

"Um, yeah. You tripped. Are you alright?" I could hardly believe I was asking my attacker how he was feeling, but looking at the man it was obvious he had no clue what had just happened. "Are you okay? How do you feel?" I wanted to ask him a million other questions about what he remembered, but the man struggled to his feet and looked around the street in utter confusion. "I'm fine," he said, "my goodness, I've no idea what just happened. I must have blacked out."

"You should go to the hospital." I started to back away from him, wanting to get home, to get as far as I could from him in case he went bat-shit again.

"I-I will," he stammered.

"Right," I turned and began walking away from him, soon walking turned into running, until I was sprinting, my heart in my throat and a stitch in my side. I had to get away from whatever this was, whatever had happened. I felt my neck prickle again, like someone was watching me, and I tried to outrun that too.

Thanks for reading! What do you think is going to happen next? Leave a comment below! ;)