Chantal

I bolt through the lobby with my heart pounding wildly in my chest and the squeaking sound of my damp shoes on the tiles chasing me every step of the way. Crashing through the double doors, the sound of the pouring rain hits me as does the sudden shock of the cold droplets. It brings me to a stop just for a moment and I’m desperate for breath.

No thought breaches my mind as I push myself onward and throw myself onto my bicycle. Helmet and goggles forgotten, I haul the bicycle around and start pedaling like my life depends on it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

That man… Was he dead?

No, I can’t think about that, I just have to get away. Maybe no one saw me, maybe I can just melt back into my quiet existence of being a nobody who knows nothing and doesn’t disturb anyone.

Such a thought is impossible because that handsome man saw me.

His striking blue eyes landed right on me and even in the darkness of the hallway there was no way he didn’t see me or hear my thumping steps down the stairs.

Maybe he’s not alive, pipes up a small voice in the back of my head. Maybe he’s dead, too.

My arms tremble, jerking the handlebars as I race through the streets in no particular direction other than as far away from Lodestar Skylines as I can get. The rain slaps against my face, stinging every inch. It makes it very difficult to see, but I can’t tell if that’s because of the rain or the never-ending tears. Nothing can make me slow down or stop.

The murder scene fills my mind and it won’t leave. It plays on a loop, constantly showing me that dark-haired stranger crashing to the ground and the other rotund stranger opening fire on the already wounded man. His flinch as he’s shot plays out perfectly in my mind and nausea begins to gather in my gut.

I saw a man get shot.

I saw him get shot and die.

A killer like that doesn’t leave witnesses, right? What if he killed everyone else in that room? Men that go around killing people don’t typically let other people stay alive to talk about it. He’ll have killed that dark-haired man, I bet. He’ll have killed him and then he’ll be coming for me because I saw him do it.

A sob tears its way from my chest and I wail openly, losing my grip on the pedals. In my despair, I take the next corner so badly that my front wheel catches on the curb and bounces me up in the air a few inches. It’s enough for me to lose traction and I panic, wrenching the handlebars all the way to the left. The bike wobbles, but I still lose balance and topple head over bar to the ground with a crash.

I land in a heap, flung forward as my bike clatters down behind me in a whine of scraping metal and bouncing tires. Shock shoots up to my elbows as I throw my hands out to catch myself and miss. My left knee takes the brunt of the impact and I end up on my back simply lying in the street as the rain paints the outline of my body like chalk at a crime scene.

Like chalk around a dead man.

“Fuck,” I sob brokenly, and the cold ground seeps its icy fingers through my thin waterproof coat. I can’t see from tears and rain but with small mercy, the shock of what I witnessed keeps the pain of my crash at bay. I lay there, distraught for a good few moments before a clatter from a nearby alley jerks me to my feet.

It’s likely a raccoon or something else but fear paints it as those men coming to hunt me down. My bike is wrecked, the handlebars are twisted all the way around tangling the cables, and in my terror, I can’t get them free. Another clatter sounds, so I abandon my bike and start sprinting down the street. I can’t feel the pain in my left knee but the weakness is there with every pounding step and I half run, half limp away from the scene.

The murder lingers in my mind, as do those piercing blue eyes. Was he a good guy or one of the bad ones? If I had stayed, could I have changed anything?

No, I know better than that. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen someone get shot and I know better than to linger.

Consumed by my thoughts, I don’t notice the car until I’m right in front of it out in the street. It stops in time with a squeal of brakes and an obnoxiously loud horn honk. I jump in terror, not realizing I had run out into the middle of the road. Frozen like a rabbit in headlights, I expect the men from that room to pour out of the vehicle.

Thankfully, behind the rapid swipe of the wipers, I can see a woman glaring at me over the top of her spectacles. That relief urges me on and I run away without a glance.

I don’t know how long I’ve run for but as exhaustion finally starts to take over and the initial burst of adrenaline finally begins to fade, familiar buildings and streets surround me. I slow to a jog as I cross the street and my own apartment building comes into view.

Thank god.

Home. That’s where I will be safe.

I take the steps two at a time and crash into the door. My keys are lost in my pockets and it takes several long moments of frantic searching to locate them. My fingers are so numb from the cold that it takes me even longer to find the right key, and by the time I’ve wrestled the lock open and stumbled inside, a fresh wave of tears consumes me.

I slam the door shut and lock it, sliding every bolt and chain into place to keep the outside firmly on the other side. Once the last chain slips into place, I sink to the ground with my back to the door and sob.

Pain rips from my chest. I tuck my knees up against my body, wrap my arms around them, and bury my face into the crook of my elbow.

A murder. I witnessed a murder in a place where I was just supposed to deliver a parcel, in a city where I was supposed to be safe. Scenes like that, blood and death and fear, were meant to be just scars from my past, not nightmares right here in the present. As I cry, the murder in my mind starts to flicker and warp to scenes from my childhood, dragging up old memories I had long since buried in my new life.

Men covered in blood, wielding weapons like a third limb. My tyrannical father yelling at me and my poor mother. Countless victims dead at his hands. I may have been young but I saw it all.

That was my past. My mother had worked so hard to take us away from that life and now the blood was back. It had been over a decade since I had seen my father but that didn’t really mean anything in the world I had escaped from.

Was this related? Was there really no escape?

The tears eventually begin to dry and I slowly lift my head to listen. My apartment is quiet and warm, a silence broken only by the occasional beep from the clock on the fridge. This place is my safe haven and yet even as I huddle on the floor, the dark shadows begin to morph into hidden assailants waiting for my back to be turned.

I scramble up and begin darting through my apartment, turning on all the lights and closing all the curtains after checking outside. There are no cars in the streets and no murderers lurking in the shadows of my closet or the boiler cupboard. It’s just me and my own fear jumping at nothing.

By the time I return to the living room, my apartment is bright like a beacon and I’m certain I’m alone. I drag my hands through my hair and wince as pain flares along my palms. Glancing at them, they are both grazed from the fall and dirtied with tiny stones and muck. Acknowledging them causes a flare-up of sudden pain in my left knee and I sink down onto my couch with a weak sob.

Pulling the blanket from the back of the couch, I bury myself deep underneath and close my eyes. I don’t care that I’m still soaked and dressed.

I need to forget this.

Please let it be some terrible bad dream.