i'm being followed.
This isn't Fleet Street.
It might be a street, it might be a jail cell what with the slimy cobblestones shining black in the moonlight- no, not that much light in jail- jail is a dark place and the woman who's been following her wouldn't like it, it would bring back bad memories. The woman travels in liquid, she's sure of it, like the pools of blood- no, water, no, blood, with the moonlight that isn't coming through a jail window shining on them. They surround her- she surrounds her- she sees the woman in every pool, she knows the woman is following her, watching her.
The woman looks pitiful, ugly, wretched- she might cry with pity for her plight, or laugh at the hair, the eyes, the utter silliness of it all- she hears a short, choked, awful sound and knows she must be laughing at the woman, but the woman's mouth is moving- must not be her, must be the woman laughing because she has her cornered- why come after her? She knows nothing of the man. She couldn't lead her to him, and that's surely what the woman wants- what else would she want, sanity?- she can't help her, so why doesn't she leave her alone?
She'll be sleeping, she knows, on this street- jail?- street, not jail, not with the moonlight- in the pools of blood- water- blood? Hell. This is hell, and the woman in the water- blood? Blood, yes, blood, the woman in the blood is the Devil- and she isn't roasting, she's cold- hell is a cold place?- the moon is too full. Too full for hell. The fires of hell drown out the moon, and the smoke blackens the sky- no moon, no moon in hell, just fire- 'Leave me alone!' she thinks as the woman's face becomes anxious- it has an unhealthy glow in the moonlight. 'I don't know him,' she thinks as the woman's eyes grow defiant- she does not know him, has not seen the face- not for days- hours- minutes-
Hell. This is hell.