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I am a Journalistic Photographer
Fotoankh
Female/Russia
Why I Am Here
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Last Visit: 3 days ago
Anna Ponomareva
Art Zone
Personal Zone
Misc. Zone
This is the place where you can personalize your profile!
But, how?
By moving, adding and personalizing widgets.
You can drag and drop to rearrange.
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The bottom has widgets you can add!
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Some widgets have options that are only available when you get a premium membership.
We've split the page into zones!
Certain widgets can only be added to certain zones.
"Why," you ask? Because we want profile pages to have freedom of customization, but also to have some consistency. This way, when anyone visits a deviant, they know they can always find the art in the top left, and personal info in the top right.
Don't forget, restraints can bring out the creativity in you!
Now go forth and astound us all with your devious profiles!
The digital clock humming quietly on my nightstand was the only sound my ears could pick up from my surroundings. The night was dead quiet. I know he was there. Right on schedule, he would be standing outside my window. He would knock. I, for reasons I wish I could explain, would open the blinds. He would stare at me, and I would stare at him. He would leave soon after, and I would stay awake until the sun began to rise. This was our routine. My mind was wandering a thousand miles away when he first knocked, though my eyes stayed lingering on the window. I told myself I wouldn't open the blinds. I told myself that tonight he wouldn't scare me and that I would get the rest I desperately needed. He knocked twice more. I held a pillow over my head and began humming an old song I used to sing in elementary school. He knocked again, and this time, he had done it a lot less courteously than he had in the past. It had become a loud thumping noise. I threw the pillow off my head and opened the blinds. His pale, wrinkly face leered in at me. His lifeless, black eyes that shone despite their darkness peered into my own. His stringy hair fluttered a little in the wind. He seemed to be breathing somewhat harshly, and though it was hard to determine his mood as anything other than emotionless, I could sense an amount of animousity I had never felt before.
After what seemed like hours, he turned around and was on his way. I faced the ceiling and wept. This had been going on for more than a month. I had tried to talk to others about it, but I could never finish my sentences. They'd degrade into quiet mumblings and whispers. I was so tired, and I had even begun to wonder if I was losing my mind. I had tried sleeping pills but even they couldn't help me to sleep though the night. The weirdest part is that I always woke up abou five minutes before he knocked. I knew, instictively, that he would be there. I was so tired. The next night, I told myself that under no circumstances would I look out the window, I didn't care if he was on the verge of breaking the glass, I would not give him what he wanted. I would not feed him. He'd have to find someone else to terrify. He'd have to leave me alone.
I woke up, and I instantly knew what was going to happen. It's funny, I was anticipating his knocks, and yet I still jumped a little when I finally heard him. I lay in my bed quietly, as if I hadn't heard anything. He knocked again, and I hid under the pillow once more. He knocked again, even louder than he had the night before. I whimpered, but remained under the pillow. He knocked twice more. After that, things got quiet. I no longer had the feeling I was being watched. I pulled my head out from under my pillow and slowly looked out the window.
Nothing. Just my backyard.
I laughed. I laughed so hard that little tears began to slip out of my eyes. He was somebody else's problem now. I looked at the clock, noticed that I had only been awake for about fifteen minutes, and turned over to go back to sleep. I had just gotten to that area where dreams mingle with reality when I heard the distant click of a door. My backdoor. Someone had just entered into my house from the outside. Something from my backyard. I knew it was him. I listened quietly as his footsteps made their way from my kitchen, to my dining room, to the short hallway outside of my bedroom. He was walking slowly, patiently, and was not attempting to hide his presence at all.
He knocked on my door and I almost vomited. I wanted to do something, anything. I was paralyzed with fear. He knocked again. Trembling, I pulled the pillow back over my head. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping, knocking, and a digital clock humming quietly to itself.
