Adam Stanheight

Adam was a self centered, egotistical photographer with absolutely no regard for anyone other than himself. That's why it was so easy to do his freelance work: stalking people for cowards who were too wimpy to do it themselves. He took immense pride in his work, enjoying the desperation from people who run his way, nearly begging him to take photos of their cheating husbands and unfaithful wives. He felt powerful, very in control of what he was doing. Until he got caught by you.

You were a local in Adam's town, having lived there for just about as long as he did. But he was seven years older than you, so it wasn't likely that the two of you would ever cross paths. Until you went to the bar alone one night, just to unwind from a long week at work. Adam clocked you so fast, nearly choking on his drink the moment he made eye contact with you. He got that familiar thumping in his chest, and that desire in his soul, the one that told him to make his move: the Adam way.

Adam spent the rest of the night watching your every move, looking away to the TV every time your gaze started shifting his way. When you went to the bathroom, he eyed the door the entire time, waiting for you to come out like a predator watching its prey.

Adam didn't get like this often, but when it happened, it happened bad. Sure, he's received a few bloody noses and black eyes from his photographic behaviors, but it was nothing that damaged his ego. If anything, it would boost it, him priding the fact that he can get to people, crawl under their skin and make them writhe enough to assault him.

When you started to leave, Adam followed far behind. He scurried off behind a dumpster and watched you go to your car. He looked at your license plate and made a promise to remember it.

That was the start of something ugly.

It took three weeks before Adam saw your car again, parked outside of a local cafe. His heart skipped a beat when those numbers and letters he memorized played out in the order that belonged to your car, excitement washing through him. With determination, he strutted toward the cafe, eager to see you again.

You were there, back turned to the door as you were occupied on your laptop. It took Adam no time to recognize you despite the change of scene from a dimly lit bar to a brightly colored cafe. His heart fluttered in his chest when he realized it was in fact you. He went to the counter and ordered himself a coffee, taking a seat on the opposite side of the cafe. Adam so desperately wanted to take out his camera and photograph you, but he couldn't. Not here, where it'd be so obvious. He'd have to start being discreet.

So that's what he set off to do.

When you left, Adam watched you walk to your car and made a point to see which street you turned down, which direction took you home. He knew he'd have it all figured out in no time.

And he was right.

Four days later, your car was parked outside of a school. Adam was talking a scenic walk to take pictures and noticed your car from a few hundred feet away. He looked at the school and took note of the name. You must've worked here.

So, Adam made a point to walk that route past the school everyday to see if your car was there, and he was right: you did work there, as your car was there everyday. He'd take his walk at different points of the day, always peeking inside to see if you were in there. And one day, you were, eating what was probably your lunch. Adam almost shrieked when he saw the opportunity. He hid behind a tree, took out his camera, and took some pictures.

Then, Adam had an idea. There weren't many streets that went in the direction of when you left the cafe that one day. So he got in his car and set off down every street when he knew you'd be home from work - as he was starting to piece together your hours. Your car was only ever at the school from 8am-3pm, and he assumed you were home in the evenings. And right he was. After an hour and a half of driving down every street, he found it: your car, parked outside of an apartment complex. He began to look through the open windows, wondering which place was yours. When he couldn't find you, he set off home, determined to figure out which apartment was yours.

After two weeks, Adam parked his car at the end of the street you lived on and walked it when he knew you'd be getting home. He watched as you walked in your apartment, sneaking pictures behind another parked car. During one of the pictures, you turned around, looking around almost panicked. When you didn't see anything to worry you, you continued to go back into your apartment. The last shot Adam got was a look of terror on your face as you shut the door, peering outside one last time just to see if someone was following you.

As Adam progressed his stalking, you began to feel uneasy. Something wasn't right. You felt like you were being watched. Everywhere you went it felt like the same car and the same young man with a camera wrapped around his neck was there. It began to scare you, growing uneasy. Was he stalking you, or were you just paranoid?

You lived on the edge for 3 months, Adam basking in photos of you, candids of you eating lunch, walking to your car, going out with friends, cleaning the windows of your apartment. Adam was so bathed in bliss by his wildest fantasies that he failed to consider: he might not be being as careful as he usually is. His desperation is driving him to be careless, and he failed to realize it until one night when you approached him.

You went to the liquor store to get yourself some drinks. Adam took a picture. You picked up dinner. Flash! another picture. By the time you got home and got out of your car, there was that fucking flash again, the one you were so sure you were dreaming of. You whipped around and there he was: ducking behind a dumpster.

"Hey!" You call out, running towards the dumpster. But Adam takes off. You don't stop though, you keep running, screaming after him. Until he trips and falls, camera shattering in the process. You catch up to him as he wails about his camera, holding the broken pieces in his shaking hands.