[ WP ] You are travelling alone on a train when you notice that a man across the aisle is looking at you as he writes in his journal .

I have enough trouble writing as it is. I do n't mean the process of putting words together and forming stories, but actual pen and paper writing. I have doctor's handwriting, chickenscratch, and making simple print requires my full attention mentally and visually. I understand the talent varies by person but to stare away and jot down continuously definitely piques one's interest. 
 
 Silence broken by scratches. A pair among nobody. A lone spectator. A lone subject. No, that ca n't be the right word for it. Spectacle gives me too much credit. Target. 
 
 My eyes widen. I glance back. He has vanished and suddenly I question how long his writing stopped. Think. Breathe. 
 
 The scratching resumes from the same position. His eyes narrow as his pen snakes across the pad. There is no way that he could have vanished earlier but he manages to yet again. THINK! 
 
 The chime reminds me that I have three stations left. The walk after is n't of concern. The scribbling is. He has advanced a row closer and I have n't grasped my place in this yet. I have never so much white on an eye straight on before. I ca n't even discern if it is still a circular pupil anymore. No. Why am I focusing on the eyes? The writing? No. It's him. 
 
 I reach into my bag and the scratching speeds up. A phone with no reception underground, a wallet ( Hello Kitty ), a set of keys that I know from experience are n't useful as a weapon, and far too many papers and receipts than one needs. I can hear all of my friends saying `` I told you so'' as I'm about to fall to Hubris as many before me. No weapon is still a weapon in its own way. 
 
 Two more stops and one row between us. The doors open but far too many horror movies have told me that poorly lit stations are deathtraps. Tense legs and loose grip. Prepare for an attack and a counter. The scratching has stopped but he's there. His breath is there. He's behind me and my hearts skips a beat. That's my signal to move. 
 
 It was a distraction. This whole time. He's almost mimicking my leap out of the seat and there's a notepad flying at me. I ca n't quite grab it but the bounce confirms: he was literally scribbling without looking. Hiding his intention in plain sight. I skip back before even landing and I stumble into a vertical rail. His strut towards is filled with confidence. Filled with arrogance. Filled with someone's foot kicking his sideways and suddenly I rise above him. 
 
 The trick to mounting somebody in a fight is that with your heart racing and mind focused solely on another person, you have to remember that this is n't sex. You cant put yourself on even terms. You sit on their abs rather than groin. It is incredibly awkward if you have n't done it before but it does n't end there. Your fist crashes into a hard object and you have to bear the pain. If you're prepared to hit the metal plating on the floor then you're already swinging your other fist. 
 
 -- - 
 
 The puddle of blood had finally settled when I heard a chime. It was my stop. I had to move. Rolling off and sprinting from a crouch like a child impersonating an Olympian I barreled throw the doors while managing to get a glimpse of my most recent arena. It was clean. That was nice. That was wrong. The doors shut. 
 
 I sat in disbelief and stared in disbelief at the empty train car. Empty windows passed me by. A man with a notepad in one. He was n't watching me. He was n't hurt. He was n't gone.
