I ran. My breath came in short gasps that tore through my lungs, and my chest heaved with the effort of sprinting. My sneakers hit the pavement again and again, pounding themselves against the ground. Hair from my bun whipped into my face, and I didn't, couldn't, push it aside.
He was nearby.
A tear stung my eye and flew down my cheek, followed by another, and then another. I felt my chin start to tremble. I couldn't cry, not now. An alley was on my right, and I stumbled as I tried to turn. My legs tangled together, and I barely had time to shove my hands in front of me before I fell.
He was close.
I pushed myself up, and felt blood trickle down my knee. Stumbling on, the brick walls began to get narrower and narrower, the mold becoming darker and bigger. I turned my self back to look at him as he entered the alley. His face, grotesque and disfigured, smiled as I looked at him. That smile revealed dagger sharp teeth and a mad glint in his eye. It spoke to me more than words ever could. I fled, not knowing where my feet would take me.
He was closer.
I tried to swallow as I ran, but my throat was too dry, too raspy. I put my head down, panting hard, and I knew I was slowing my pace. Run or you die. As I looked up again, familiarity struck me like lightning. My neighborhood. My street. And then, my house. With a last burst of speed, I sprinted to the door and threw myself against the handle. Please be open, please be open. The knob turned, and I fell over the threshold of my childhood home.
He was closest.
The house was dark and cold, and I knew before I climbed the stairs, before I saw my mother's bedroom door spattered with dark blood, what I would find with absolute certainty. My mother. My sisters. Their bodies lay bruised and battered on the floor, my mother's eyes still open, her last breath stolen from her. My hand flew to my mouth, but I couldn't stay, frozen like a deer in headlights, where he could find me.
He was on the stairs.
I drew in a breath, and threw myself under my mother's bed. How many times I had his here as a child, I couldn't remember. But this time, it wasn't to escape medicine or bath time. It was to keep my life, to avenge my mother and my sisters, the only people who had ever loved me.
He was in the bedroom.
I could see his boots, large and black on the floor. He moved to the closet and threw it open. The bathroom, and I heard the shower door slam. The dresser, and I could picture him opening each drawer in turn. And then he turned to the bed. I held my breath as he approached, biting my lip to hold back the screams. His knees started to bend, his heels rising as knelt. No. The curtain that surrounded the mattress was lifted with a grubby hand, and I saw a knife in the other hand.
He was here.
His face came into view, and I couldn't stay quiet. I screamed for help, for god, for anyone, anything. His hand dragged me out by my hair, and as he lifted me level to his face, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He raised the knife, and as he did, as the bodies of my mother and sisters began to fade to darkness, my father smiled, revealing those sharp teeth, their deadly points, and the madness that had lived inside of him for years.
He had won.
