Prowling

It would not leave her be. Everywhere she went, it followed, like a moth follows a flame-she was that flame, and slowly, she was dying. As time passed, and as its visits became more frequent, she grew weaker, tenser, and more paranoid. Gradually, the paranoia drew its claws into her heart, and soon, into her soul.
When she walked from school, there it was, peering from the confines of a bushy tree, with its one, glaring eye. An eye that seemed to pulsate fear- fear that needed no road map to find its target. Even when she was in the safety of a group, she could still feel the focus of the eye beaming intently upon her very being, as her fibers were slowly being weaved apart.
And even at night, she had no chance of recuperating and acquiring a new aura of energy, for there it was- peering from her window, with that demonic eye, as it raked its ghastly claws back and forth over the glass.
Each scratch was a slash directly to her person; each glare, a bullet into the soul, a bullet so entrenched that nothing could ever get it out.
And one night, with one final scratch, and a final glance, her soul and body said their farewells, for good, and finally she was at peace. She was free.