I could not see anything. The gleams of the moon did not even share its light with the alley. There were drips from my forehead, all salted. The rhythm of my steps matched my breath. I did not stop.
Someone was following me. He was carrying a knife—already soaked with blood. When he entered the bar I was in a while ago, I knew something was not right the instant our eyes met. I hurriedly ran out.
“Hey!” He shouted. I dashed—some scraps of the alley were puncturing my jacket until I felt a pain and the impact of the sturdy yet gravelly path shot flames to my skin and body.
I could feel him inches behind me. I could feel his rush, his anger, and his hatred. I could all feel it and I did not know why. Suddenly, I fell and sting came as an aftereffect. I hit the dead end.
The air could not pass my diaphragm anymore. On the cold path, I saw the tail of the moon with its shy light; it was shedding some of its illumination with the icy void. I shouted as I caught a glimpse of my murderer.
I blocked myself through my arms, but no plunging came into me. I slowly unlatched my arms and abruptly stood up, despite of the obnoxious pain. I turned and rested my back on the wall, focusing my vision into the alley with the little light I had. I was surprised.
There was no one in the alley nor following me. I was alone.
And as I look below me, there was the knife,—washed in blood—sleeping before me with my own shadow.
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