The Bull

The Next Victim

Michaela Fromme

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My clothes were damp and cold. The rain started to subside, falling in light drips onto the darkened cars parked outside of the building. The night air was quiet and still, and if I hadn’t known better it would feel as if the world had finally died and I was the last one left. But I knew better; I wasn’t alone. My breathe hitched as I tried to control my fear, waiting for a dark shadow to consume the streetlight on the other side of the pavement. The building was old and crumbling and smelled of dust and death. I sat on the second story, forcing my ears to hear anything other than my lungs expanding and deflating. I needed reassurance that it was safe, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell until I heard his loud footsteps crunch upon the cracking road. I was waiting for his body to create a shift in the only light outside. Or for a reflection to appear onto the car. I needed something. I pulled out my phone from my pocket which was cracked after I had tried to call for help while running away, only for my battery to die as soon as I dialed 9-1-1. I pressed all the buttons, holding down on them tightly until my fingers were numb and yellow, as if it would turn on just for 30 more seconds so I could talk to someone, anyone. But it was dead. And I knew as soon as the man I had just witnessed murder my best friend found me, I would be too.

 

(This is a flash fiction story.)

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