She panted, her sides aching. 'GOD WHY!' She thought to herself, 'OH GOD WHY ME!?' Kelly turned the corner. Cold sweat ran down her balmy skin, liquid fear shot through her veins. Her bladder tightened, she had to fight the biggest urge to pee. She ran down the long corridor, her leg muscles tightening and creaking in their loss of vigor. Trying all the doors; locked. There was only one left, she could hear his footsteps. Every creak wound her tighter than a drum. She whined softly and tried her luck. With the fastest speed she could muster she went to the door at the end of the hall, a slatted closet type door. She snatched the knob, trying her luck. Locked…. The footsteps stopped, a large snarl made her stomach churn. Looking back, there he was, the big bad monster. With bits and pieces of her friend in his teeth, his machete raised high. With rushing adrenaline she pulled the knob again, "HELP ME!" She bellowed, beating the door. He stepped forward, closing in on his prey. She tried to pull the slants, "OH GOD! IF SOMEONES THERE!" She glanced back again, too late. The man loomed over her with the biggest intent to kill…

Roger Hugh looked at his work, staring at it. The man at the computer was a tall average build man with brown hair arranged in a boy-ish way. And his green-grey eyes, intelligent in every way were hidden behind his thick framed glasses. His face fixed in a perplexed form was sharp and Roman in all aspects, pointed high cheek bones, square chin, thin lips, and a long strong nose. Some would call him a Geeky type of handsome. He relaxed in his pajamas none too pleased.

He erased all of it. 'It wasn't…' he pondered, 'good' is what he decided. Sighing, he looked out the window, rain. It had been raining for three days. It had been prime setting for writing material. It would've been if he could write. Or write something that was agreeable in the very least. His deadline was coming soon and this book never even touched off the ground.

He loved to write, it made him feel good to write, and when he was younger he'd say he was like Bach writing music. He could write faster than his fingers could muster. He leaned back in his beat up chair. His attention returned to his clichéd horror story. He tried to stray away from clichés and try new things that no one has ever done before. As a testament for his love of writing, but it all came out…

He bit his lip, 'bad…all my writing seems bad'. His mother was a Romance novelist, got on New York's best sellers list. And she gave him some advice that seems good now.

'Maybe you're not a writer, not everyone is.' She didn't mean it in a bad way. She was looking out for his prospects. But as a teen he was head strong in what he wanted. But, right now this career got him a crappy fast food job on the side and a dinky little apartment on the top floor of an off brand Walgreens.

'I could always go back to college and finish my Archaeology degree,' He thought about it for a while, it'd be better than this he marveled. He was sure his editor would have astroke when he found out he wasn't past chapter 6 in a 32 chapter novel. Water dripped from a leak somewhere in his apartment. He didn't want to see where this time, his best bet was his comics that he loved to collect. He relaxed, drawing his curtains back to see the view fully.

That's when he saw her.

Claire Redfield. That's what he heard from the grapevine at least. Moved in a month ago, he hadn't talked to her once; He was too nervous. Roger did see her from time to time. One time in an elevator, he could've talked to her, but he was just too tongue tied to say anything or approach her, so he stood there like a moron until she left. Nowadays, he's opted to look at her from a far; he gazed upon her through the window. She wouldn't see, she was too caught up in house guests, and his apartment was pitch-black minus the light from his computer which was dimming from lack of use.

She caught him looking once, all he could muster was a dumb founded wave and an idiot grin.

She waved back, a friendly smile. It only got worse when he walked away; he tripped knocking down all his work papers. He swore he heard her laugh. Roger didn't want to show his face to her after that.

At this moment, she grinned taking away dirty dishes from the strangers. Her cheeks getting rosy red from laughing and her gorgeous blue eyes sparkling in the light. Roger blushed, she sure was pretty. He looked back at his computer screen, he considered her as a muse at this point. He adjusted his glasses. Thinking, then forgot his novel all together, signing into a writing site. His life was pretty dull at this point, he belt out another chapter for a fan story.

He wrote a lot of fan things, Star Trek, Star Wars, Star Gate, X-men. He used it for practice for his real writing. Roger couldn't help it, it was sort of easy, and he was always excited for the reviews. It seemed sometimes he did it more for the reviews than the story. Which was wrong in his book, he liked to write and did it for fun. Hell, maybe it was for both.

Roger sighed it took up most of his time, having no social life was a downer. He had some friends. There was Mike from off brand Walgreens, Tim his manager from Mickey D's, Logan the blind man from down stairs. But the rest were off and married with their own lives. It made him fade in comparison. Literally, he often joked about it with friends he did see; he was paler than his milk in the fridge.

Roger brushed back his hair, wondering if one of the men was her boyfriend. The way she handled them; probably both were. 'That does it' he decided, 'everyone was getting laid but me.'

Being a virgin didn't help either, looking back maybe he shouldn't have taken that chastity pledged back in Sunday school so seriously.

He finished entering his chapters, waiting for responses. None would come tonight, he knew it.

Looking back over, Claire was out of sight, and the apartment seemed empty, and there was a blonde man at her window. Probably the same one from before he assumed, the man went over and crouched down in plain view of her.

'Not a nice way to treat a guest,' Roger thought, maybe she's one of those types. He didn't see why it wouldn't be the man, plus there was no way anyone could go on the roof. And the bottom of that particular fire escape was in desperate need of repair. There was no ladder or a set of stairs for three stories up, just two pieces of metal hanging, stuck out like a sore thumb where a whole lower half once connected. It looked freakin' dangerous to even kneel down on that thing, it seemed so brittle, like it could break by just attempting to walk on it.

His fire escape was the same. One day a fire would break out and he'd be the idiot to go out, falling to his doom.

Plus, the man must've been there for a while, he looked miserable in his wet attire, and he looked desperate to get back inside.

So he felt a little bad for the man outside.

Claire walked back in view, his heart skipped a beat. This made him frustrated, closing the curtain, he wouldn't stalk her. Over the past month he felt like he had. It was his own fault, he had waited too long.

He clicked back on his story. He hadn't writers block in a long time. The longest he had it was when his step-dad died and they moved here. It took him two years to adjust from a rural setting to an urban one just to write again. That's when he started the Fan stories too, he made faces at his novel.

Nothing came from it, with a forlorn huff he looked out his window once more seeing her curtains closed. This agitated him, he had no reason to be. She wasn't his girlfriend.

He got up, deciding it would be best to go to bed. After shutting his computer lid he slid into his cot. He was going to have a long day tomorrow staring at his computer screen.