The murder
In the darkness of night, she stood there, contemplating picking up the gun. She knew that if she did, she would have to aim carefully and pull the trigger. Only then would she know for sure if she had the strength to become a killer. And so, with a shaking hand, she reached for the gun and took aim.
She steeled herself, then pulled the trigger. A loud bang, and the recoil of the gun made her arm sore. After a moment of shock, she came to her senses and ran away, leaving the scene behind her. She ran through the willows
She ran, knowing that she couldn't run for long. The willows ended abruptly, giving way to the swift, dark waters of the creek. The banks were steep and slippery, and the waters were cold and deep. She couldn't cross there. She could only run along the shore, her footsteps echoing in the night.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and her breath came in ragged gasps. She kept running, even as her legs began to ache and her feet grew numb.
Her shoes were soaked through with mud and water, making each step feel like an eternity. The sound of her footsteps reverberated through the night, filling her with a sense of dread. Would he hear her? Would he find her? If he did, what would he do? The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
But she pushed those thoughts from her mind, focusing instead on her escape. She knew these woods like the back of her hand, and she used that knowledge to her advantage. She whispered words of encouragement to herself, urging herself to keep going. She was doing well
She listened. She listened hard, with all her body stilled. There was the creek, that was all. No footsteps, no rustle. But she couldn't hold still for too long. She had to keep moving. If she had been traveling in circles, if she had missed the opening in the willows and was now farther from it, if she was getting closer to him instead of further away...
The possibilities were endless, and she couldn't stand it. She felt a surge of panic and started walking again, the mud squelching beneath her feet. She pressed on
She'd lowered herself as much as she could, flat against the wall, to hear better. And that’s when she’d seen him, his silhouette at the top of the stairs, looking down, listening, trying to figure out where she was. She'd looked into his eyes, even though she knew better, and she'd seen a light there, a light of hunger and cruelty. She'd felt the weakness of shock, that terrible feeling of not having any control, of being a thing in a world of things, and then something in her had simply refused to accept it.