30 f.ucking thousand <3
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(3)
Out the window, along the balcony, down the tree, across the field, down the path, to the road.
Now what?
You rub your hands together in an attempt to produce enough heat to atleast get rid of the jabs in your fingers. It's not freezing, but it's cold enough for you to feel icy pricks every now and then, a few shivers running down your spine.
You don't even know where you're going.
"Shhh," someone to the left of you hisses, "He doesn't even know we're out here."
"Because," a different voice says in an angry tone, "We're not supposed to be out here. He trusts us."
"Yes," a third voice pipes in, "But we're teenagers!"
"We're thirteen," a fourth voice speaks up.
"So?"
"So we're not really teenagers."
The third voice yells out louder this time, "These are the rebellion years!"
"Shut up, Mikey."
By now you're pretty freaked out, but you shrug it off, continuing down the sidewalk. The only thing illuminating your path is the flickering glow of the street lamps.
"Hey, it's a girl," one of the guys from earlier says to the rest of them.
The voices are coming from behind a huge hedge.
Distracted by the mysterious supposed thirteen year olds, you don't notice the person in front of you. You don't notice the damp cloth. You don't notice the dark mask covering most of their face. You don't notice the sack. You don't notice the baseball bat.
Not until it's too late.
