If Jane snuck a look at her now, all she’d be able to see is a hive of blond hair and hoop earrings. The smudges of mascara across her cheeks are covered by shaking hands with long red nails.
Jane doesn’t know what to do. This isn’t a new feeling for her. Being all of nine years old comes with blatant confusion and puzzling situations at the best of times, but she feels like she’s meant to know what to do in this situation. The man outside though looks like all of the grimacing figures on the front of the DVDs in the Horror section of the movie store combined, and Jane is just a small and scared little girl. Her own hands are trembling as she holds them in her lap, flattened against her blue jeans with the hole in the knee. Her feet are cramping with the itch to move but she can’t. The image of the man peering through her window with his fists bloodied flashes before her eyes, and she clamps them shut.
But she still sees him. His face leers before her. A nose like a PlayDough fist, a stubbled head. His mouth warps and twists with ugliness, exposing teeth like rotting kernels of corn. His muscles flex beneath the Arsenal shirt, the veins in his fists popping with his violent heartbeat. He is five metres away from her and her breath will not explode through her chest. The ugly transition between crying and breathing takes her full effort, and she coughs raggedly, jerking down further into the footwell. The screaming continues outside. The radio plays Taylor Swift. She cannot breathe.