As the girl walks up to me, I notice her hand in her pocket. I stand up. She whips her hand out of her hoodie, a rad looking knife is pointing straight at my chest, merely inches away.
I squeal, backing away. I hear rumbling laughter behind the girl and I redden.
She steps closer.
"Tell me who you are and I put down the knife," she tells me, making long, hard eye contact.
"Is this how you greet everyone?" I try to lighten the mood.
Not a good move, Sky.
I can feel the tip of the knife on my chest now, pressing ever-so-gently between my ribs, right where they meet in the center. It's not the knife that I'm worried about, she's not at the right point in the ribs to do much damage, she's too high up. The knife is pretty blunt too. What am I really worried about? I don't know.
She doesn't bother asking again, but slowly starts adding pressure while the macho guys snicker. I'm afraid she'll start cutting fabric, so I blurt out,
"I'm Sky!"
"What are you doing here?"
"H-hiding," I stutter.
"Runaway?"
"Yeah."
She considers my situation for a moment, finally breaking eye contact and drawing the knife away and folding it shut.
"Where ya headin'?" Her eye contact resumes.
YOU ARE READING
Murder?
Teen FictionSky has a little trouble on her hands. When she beat up her abusive stepmother, she hadn't meant to kill her. Now she's a runaway with a mess to take care of.
