My feet hit the pavement hard and I stumble momentarily. I quickly right myself and dash down the street, the men's shouts following me close behind.
I gasp for air. I'm no athlete, I'll admit that. But I can't stop. I've got to run.
I can hear the men's heavy footsteps drawing closer to me as I sprint through the town.
I race past the couples taking their afternoon strolls, the babies splashing in the town square fountain. Past the shop keepers trying to sell their products before night fall, past the families heading out for dinner.
The glimpses of faces of strangers, friends and family rush by in a whirlwind of confusion. No one realizes that someone they may know could be dead soon. No one knows that that person is me.
Why couldn't I be doing something normal now? Why couldn't I be at my cousin's wedding reception getting girls' phone numbers? Why was I the one running like my life depended on it? Why was I doing it in a tux?
I risk a glance back to see how close the men are and continue to push on when I see them starting to gain ground.
I've got to lose them. I can't let them catch me.
The sky spreads out above me, like cherry juice spilt onto a blank canvas.
Cherry Juice, annoying stuff. Hard to get out of clothes.
"Stop!" the burlier of the two men bellows at me, "If you value your life, stop!"
Not likely, I think to myself, If I value my life I shouldn't stop.
I pass old Mrs. Grigger and she raises her fist at me, shouting after me, "Danny you little ruffian! You still haven't painted over that graffiti on my wall or mowed my lawn!"
I ignore her, much to her frustration, and she yells at me that someday she'll force me to clean her bathroom on my hands and knees with my toothbrush.
That woman hates me. Just because I was walking by at the time that she found her garden wall grafitied, doesn't mean I actually did it. Thumbs up to the guy who did though.
She's disliked me ever since I got into a fight with one of her mangy one-eared tabby cats. It's not my fault the stupid animal thought it could take on a 10 year old boy who was the best batter in his baseball team.
Ever since, she's blamed me for anything and everything that's happened to her. Dad forced me to do what she wanted too since it's the "neighborly thing to do", so I was never able to avoid mowing her lawn, pruning her flowers, feeding her 500 cats and other fun chores...
I glance back at Mrs. Grigger standing by her gate, her frizzy white hair escaping from her bun, her squinty eyes, magnified to five times their usual size due to her medieval glasses. Her oversized Sunday bests dragging along the ground, her many cats surrounding her like the pigeons in the park that flock to you as soon as you pull the bread out of the bag. For some reason I can't help but think that she looks... sad. Alone. Underneath her glare, as cruel as a samurai's sword, I can see the tired, old lady, wishing that someone would talk to her.
The thought is quickly pushed to the back of my mind though as I see the two men roaring up the street, sleek black bats clutched in their hands.
I try to tell Mrs Grigger to call the police or get help. Anything to try and get these psycho's off my trail. But before I can she just shakes her head and shuffles back through her gate as the men hurtle past her.
A thought flits through my mind and I can't help but groan, If I'm going to die today - which I probably will - the last thing I'll probably remember from this world is going to be Grigger...
