The night is the darkest just before dawn, lurking in the corner of the street, eyes shining bright as a wolf in the dark, the fedora hat on his head speaks criminal volume.
She beholds this sight of terror, starring through her window, trying to figure out if it’s the break of dawn. She starts to feel like it might be a nightmare on elm street, but it’s a Friday and it’s not the thirteenth.
She closes the blinds on the window, and before she gets it shut, he makes a forlorn attempt to escape. Turning back the hands of time, its dispersed patterns all over the neighbours kitchen counter, no eye witnesses but leaving a trail of evidence in her eyes.