Page 1 of Claimed By My Stalker

1

Carrie

Iopen my eyes to a large muscular figure staring down at me. Snapping them back shut I hope it’s just a dream, an apparition. I flutter them open, and the figure remains above me, but it’s hard to capture his face in the poorly lit place.

My limbs seems to be moving fine, thus I know I’m not experiencing sleep paralysis.

Could he be an angel?

After all, I am supposed to be dead. The last thing I recall is being caught up in a shootout between strange men in suits. It had nothing to do with me, I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Me and everyone else on the right lane of the bridge.

The cabbie who picked me up from the airport told me it was a good idea to get out of the car and lay flat on the asphalt road. I listened to him, after all, I was a stranger in a strange city and he seemed to know how to get through shootouts.

I barely got out of the car when I hit the floor with a loud bang and felt a sharp pain at my side as I stared at the clear blue sky. I wanted to mutter a prayer at that moment but I couldn’t find the words.

Remaining still on the bed for what seems like forever, I reminisce the life I’ve lived. It was a good one with no regrets but if I had a chance to do it all over again there’s one thing I’d want to do, one last time…or more accuratelyfor the first timein my twenty-two years.

I never didit.

I have been waiting for the right person, the right time.

My eyes pry back open, immediately darting around where I catch sight of the figure…who’s drawing closer.

This time his face is a bit more in focus, the sound of his soft but sharp breaths audible.

What is he? A doctor?

There’s a faint citrus scent in the air, hospitals smell nothing like this.

“Who are you?” I finally whisper.

The figure stops abruptly before he tries to lower his palm on my forehead and hesitates.

“Am I dead?” I question aloud, whispering yet again.

Looking up, I see I’m lying in a large canopy bed. It’s exactly the kind of furniture I’d imagined heaven will have. A Renaissance painting stares back at me from a distance, until all of a sudden it starts to look like something other than a Renaissance painting.

Dazed, I stare at the huge luxury canopy bed I’m snuggled in, the type I’ve only seen in movies. The room is spacious despite the large extravagant furniture. No room had reason to be this big I think to myself. It says a lot about the type of building I find myself in.

I still have the urge to take a closer look at the painting on the wall. In my confusion and curiosity I try to raise myself up but a sharp pain jolts me back to bed.

What’s happening?

I’ve heard there’s no pain in heaven, so what’s going on with me?

I try again. The man grips my shoulders as I struggle to raise myself from the bed yet again.

"Your wound isn't healed yet," he says sternly.

He speaks.

His grip is as stern as his voice, cold and gentle at the same time. A breeze flutters a curtain and in a millisecond, I can see his face. An unforgettable face with olive skin, deep-set dark eyes, short hair, and a beard that makes him look like a tough guy. Despite the low light, I know he must realize how much I’m staring. I tear my eyes away from his face but they return just as quickly.

The man is staring keenly at me too, as if he’s challenging me to a staring contest at this point. There’s something about the way he looks at me, a look that tells me he’s got me all figured out, or at least he thinks he does. The seriousness of his expression leaves no room to be challenged.

The breeze sways the curtain once more and I get an even better look at his face, the image sending a chill down my spine.

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