Officer, I promise he’s right behind me, please help!

I’m really sorry, sometimes I just get ahead of myself when I tell this story. It was one of the most troubling moments of my life though. So it all started when I was biking home from the grocery store that’s about three quarters of a mile down the road from my house. I was actually on my way back home from school. Well, after I had made two blocks headed west to home I saw them; it was terrible. It was a man with a pistol and a silencer gunning down a innocent woman to steal her purse. She tried to fight back, but it was no use. He already was pulling the trigger. It was horrible; she couldn’t even scream. And nobody would ever know, he must have thought, that is until he saw me. I quickly took a picture of him with my phone and took off through a neighborhood with him close on my tail. I was looking for a police patrol car. Today for some reason though, he wasn’t were he typically was trying to catch people in a speed trap. Oh great, I guess that means I have to keep looking for someone. All along though the man kept chasing me, so when I got to a steep concrete drainage ditch that I new he couldn’t run down, I tore off down it on my bike as fast as I could. I was trying to not stay in one spot though were he could get an aim on me. I was pedaling as fast as I could down that drainage ditch when I came to an heavily trafficked bridge. There he was; the officer who would save my life. I threw down my bike and started crawling up the steep wall to get out of the ditch. I had to be fast though, because he was at a red light, and I didn’t know how much longer it would last. Finally, I made it up and ran in front of his car seconds before the light turned green. I hopped in his cruiser and told him to drive to his station immediately. Officer, I promise he’s right behind me, please help! At this moment I knew the chase was over for now at least. Later when I had settled down a little bit I gave the full story to that officer, and he just drove me home and told me to stay there until further notice.

It was a cold and windy night as I breezed past shops and building on my bycicle. Usually the darker streets of Roseateval were more troubling than this with gangs and low-level thugs roaming around, but it seems tonight everyone was peaceful. I darted past pedestrians, some of them grumbling harsh words at me but other than that it was good. I was probably the only real disturbance tonight.

I kept my breathing steady as I raced around on my bike. I was happy to be going home. I had just worked a 18 hour shift and I couldn’t wait to sleep for even longer. I couldn’t wait to go and see my sleeping wife and son too. Unfortunately, to get back I had to get through a whole workout of peddling. To counter the challenge, I decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway. Most of the time I don’t do this because I’m scared to run over anything sharp and ruin my wheels, but I thought it was worth the risk. You only live once anyways, may as well make your life easier.

I turned the handlebar and made my way down the dimly lit alley. The shuffling of my tire slide over my worse fear, glass and nails. ‘_There was probably a fight around here. Damn drunks’ _I mumbled to myself in irritation.

I maneuver my bike slowly around the broken shards, my feet pushing my bike against the ground instead of the peddles. As I steady my pace I notice someone up ahead. It was a skinny looking boy who couldn’t be any older than 12. His appearance in the shallow light was frightening. His hair was jet black, hiding his face which also looked to be partially covered by a bandage. He turned his head, and gave me a look that made me want to scream. His gaze was unnerving and his eyes were shot wide, as if he was just as surprised as me.

The young boy looked like a Skeleton, a living nightmare.

His presence had momentarily distracted me from my surroundings. From the body that lay one the ground next to his feet. The corpse had a slash wound on the neck that caught my attention.

The boy was holding a knife.__ __ “Hey Zion, remember no witnesses!!” A voice sang out from a chirpy sounding girl. I looked over and noticed that two silhouettes were hiding behind a bin. Her words rang loudly in my head.

I had already turned and raced away, no longer worrying about the nails that could harm my bike. I had raced out the ally, hoping to call for help, but there was no one. Even if there was, they wouldn’t save me anyways.

I peddled harder than I had ever done before and was afraid that the chain might come loose. I glanced back, the boy, who responded to the name Zion, was running right after me.

“No witnesses” __ Was he really not going to let me go? I promise I won’t tell anyone. I’ll forget about it. I’ll go home and act like everything is okay. I just wanted to see my family. I just wanted to go home. For as long as I live I won’t tell anyone. I promise.

Zion was intent on keeping that promise. He pursued me, and as soon as I thought I had lost him, he found me right again. He isn’t giving up. Why won’t he give up?

I was getting tired. I had just worked for so long, I wanted the easy way to get home. ‘I want to go home’ I kept repeating to myself. My whole body was trembling with that want. I needed to get away! My boy was just about to graduate Highschool. My wife and I told him we would take him out to his favourite restaurant in celebration.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of pink hair run into the side of my bicycle. It was the girl who called out before. I fell in almost slow motion, my head was going to hit the concrete. The last thing I saw before I fell unconscious was a person watching this unfold close by.

_“Hey Zion, remember no witnesses!!” _

As I walked home late one evening, the streets were unusually quiet. The city seemed to be taking a breath after the long day, and only the occasional hum of a passing car or distant chatter broke the silence. The chill in the air bit at my skin, prompting me to pull my coat tighter around myself as I quickened my pace down the dimly lit sidewalk.

As I turned a corner near the old corner store, I noticed a figure across the street. At first, I thought nothing of it. A man standing in the shadows, just beyond the glow of a flickering streetlamp. He was dressed in dark clothes, his hands shoved into his pockets. I would have continued walking without a second thought, but something about the way he moved caught my attention.

His head jerked sharply from side to side, scanning the street as if searching for someone or something. I slowed my steps and kept my eyes on him, a strange feeling settling in my gut. That’s when I saw it—a glint of something metal in his hand. A knife.

My breath caught in my throat as he darted toward a woman who had just stepped out of the store. In an instant, he was upon her, brandishing the knife in her face as he snatched her purse. The woman screamed, her cry slicing through the night, but there was no one else around to hear. No one but me.

Without thinking, I shouted, "Hey!" It was a reflex, an instinctive reaction to the horror unfolding in front of me. The man’s head snapped toward me, and our eyes locked for a brief second. His face twisted in a mix of surprise and anger, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

He bolted, sprinting down the street, the stolen purse clutched tightly in his hand. My legs moved before my mind could catch up—I was chasing him. I had no plan, no idea what I would do if I caught up to him, but I couldn’t let him get away. Not after what I’d just seen.

The sound of our footsteps echoed through the empty streets, his frantic and mine determined. He was fast, but adrenaline fueled my steps, and I found myself gaining on him, inch by inch. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with panic as he realized I was closing the gap.

We weaved through narrow alleys and darted across empty intersections, the cityscape blurring around me. My lungs burned, and my muscles ached, but I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t. He had to be stopped.

Ahead, I saw a narrow passageway between two buildings. The man veered toward it, thinking he could lose me in the dark, winding alleyways. But I was right behind him. As he rounded the corner, I heard a loud crash—he had knocked over a stack of crates, hoping to block my path. I leaped over the debris, barely slowing down.

The alley twisted and turned, the walls closing in around us. The man’s breathing was ragged, his pace faltering. He was tiring, and so was I, but I knew I had to keep going. Just a little further.

Suddenly, he stumbled, his foot catching on a loose piece of pavement. He went down hard, the purse skidding across the ground. I seized my chance, lunging forward and tackling him to the ground. We hit the pavement with a thud, and he struggled beneath me, but I held on tight, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“Get off me!” he snarled, twisting and trying to throw me off, but I tightened my grip, pinning his arms down.

“Not a chance,” I growled back, my breath coming in heavy gasps. I wasn’t a fighter by any means, but I wasn’t about to let this guy get away after what he’d done.

I heard sirens in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. Someone must have heard the commotion or seen us running and called the police. Relief flooded through me, and I knew help was on the way. I just had to hold on a little longer.

The man made one last desperate attempt to break free, but it was no use. The sound of tires screeching to a halt filled the air, and moments later, two police officers were pulling him off me and slapping handcuffs on his wrists.

I sat back on the pavement, my chest heaving, as I watched them haul him to his feet. The woman from the store appeared at the end of the alley, her face pale but her expression grateful as she clutched her recovered purse to her chest.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice trembling. I nodded, still catching my breath, and gave her a small smile.

One of the officers helped me to my feet and patted me on the shoulder. “You did good, kid,” he said. “That was brave.”

I nodded again, the reality of what had just happened finally sinking in. My heart was still pounding in my chest, but there was a sense of satisfaction mixed with the exhaustion. I had done the right thing.

As I watched the police car drive away, the city seemed to settle back into its quiet rhythm. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by a deep, bone-weary tiredness. I turned and began the walk home, the night air feeling a little less cold now, a little less heavy.

Bright streetlamps of orange and yellow light the way home, along the backroads of the city. My boyfriend always cautioned me each day before heading to work to take the main roads on my way home. But after eight hours in an office I want to get home quick. He says that the darkness brings out the devil in people; but I think he's simply paranoid. It's sweet, but unnecessary.

I slip past a ruined bakery and turn sharply down a road lined with cheap apartments. It's a clear night, though the stars are masked by the artificial lights which stand all over the city. The roads are empty and only the occasional pedestrian is strolling along the pavement. All in all, it's a pleasant night for a bike ride; the wind gently soothes my free-flowing hair, and the wheels are smooth against the tarmac.

I swerve around a corner onto Mitchell Road, but you can barely tell the difference. All the roads in this area of the city are so similar that you can easily get lost if you don't know your way - and despite the hundreds of time I've returned this way, I still occasionally made a wrong turn. There is one distinct difference of this new road though. The sound. Before the only noise was the cool rush of air blowing past my ears, but a new sound overshadows the calm. A beat. Like a drum. I glance my head around to find the origin of the sound, and then screech to a halt.

Tucked between two building's staircases is a trio of individuals, no older than twenty, crowding around another person lying on the floor. The drumbeat is the rhythm of fists and feet breaking the poor soul lying on the ground. From one of the trio's pocket a glistening object is removed and gripped tightly. It could be a number of different things, but the way they swaggered closer to their victim gave me one distinct idea: a knife. On instinct I call out, 'Hey!' They swivel and for a moment we all lock eyes. There are two men and one women; their black hoodies are pulled over their faces to try obscure themselves, but they weren't effective. The man in the middle with the knife has coal's for eyes, which is juxtaposed by blonde hair and accompanied by a crooked nose - probably broken.

The moment lasted for an infinite second, then we all move to action. I push myself off from the tarmac and begin peddling for my life. Checking behind me I see the trio smash a car window and promptly enter and rev the engine. Twenty is such a dangerous age for those with no direction; you're old enough to realise the power and authority you have, but too young for life to teach you how to control it.

I push hard against the pedals and spin them as fast as I can. The blare of an engine catches hold of my ears, and now it's the only thing in the world I can hear - even my breathing goes silent. It's a silver car, small but undoubtedly faster than a bicycle. I curve around the corner, and a second later hear my pursuers. I take another corner, then another. But after each turn the engine follows quicker.

There are no alleyways in this part of town, no small lanes unavailable to cars, nowhere to slip away. But where am I even trying to slip away to? I can't pedal forever, and I can't lead them to my home: I've seen their faces, I've seen their actions. And they don't seem like the type to forgive and forget. So, there is only one place to try for, a sanctuary, the police station. It isn't far. And I hope it's not too far tonight.

All I hear is the car. It's persistent, and strong. My legs ache. Though I cycle regularly to work, I don't tend to push myself. But now I have to. There isn't time enough to think; only instincts and movements. Acting on those instincts I slow down slightly, I fear if I stop I'll never start again. My head lingers behind me and I see my pursuers: they're all tucked into the front of a car, the man with the knife at the wheel and snarling like a deranged animal. They are close. Closer. Closer. On a dime a yank the handlebars and swerve around, right past the car.

It isn't a good enough manoeuvre to lose them, but if I head straight on I will meet the motorway which cuts through the town centre, and lead me to the police station. I peddle hard. My legs scream and tears well in my eyes, but I have to persist, if I don't then I may have an unpleasant meeting with that knife.

I don't look back. I can't. I'm afraid that if I do I'll see it, and I'll panic. I just need to head straight. There are no tricks which get me closer to sanctuary, no secret roads to weasel my way through. Only the open, empty road. Once more I head the car. Or a car. I can't tell the origin of the sound, whether it's the chasing machine, or the first whispers of the motorway. It takes all my will to focus on the pedals and not turn my head. Just focus on the pedals. On each push.

My breath is silent. I can feel the panting escaping my lips, but it's overshadowed by the pain in my legs, and the fear coursing through my body. I've never been in a fight before, let alone had to run for my life. But the sound of the car gets louder, and louder, and louder, until the blaring consumes me.

The motorway beckons, the yellow light signalling the hope of making it to the sanctuary alive. I approach the beasts of road and pause. I place my foot on the ground and observe for a moment; despite the time of day the motorway is as busy as every, with four busy lanes of cars, trucks and buses rushing through the city. And on the other side of the chaos, illuminated in white lights is my sanctuary. The police station.

Finally I check behind me. There isn't a second to process, I stomp my foot off the ground and sail to the motorway. It was there. Right behind me.

As soon as my wheel crosses onto the motorway it's as if the roads immediately fill with two ton bullets. A loud blare warns me and I curl away from an incoming truck. Then I swerve around a car, then another. I'm not in control of the bike. Not really. Something takes over me and just turns and turns, like a slalom skier. All noise blends into one, my only focus is surviving.

And I do. If asked to recreate what I just did I'd be unable to, for even I have no idea how I survived. But I did. But just because I pass the motorway doesn't mean I let up, I can't. My legs won't slow, even if I want them to. They just pedal, and pedal.

Sanctuary. The white light of the police station illuminates me. I try to slow my legs, but they have a mind of their own now. Instead, I slam the brakes. Rather than sliding to a halt, the wheels jam and throw me from the saddle. I roll along the pavement; perhaps I'm bleeding, perhaps I'm fine. The part of my brain dedicated to self-preservation is occupied by getting me through the door of the station. I'm so preoccupied that it isn't until now that I turn my head back around. The car is no longer pursuing me.

How long has it been since the car stopped? Did it lose track across the motorway? Was it even following me to begin with? Maybe that bright light chasing me was nothing but my tired mind mocking me. But then I recall the body on the street. I never saw their face, if they're dead now I wouldn't be able to identify the body. Did I really do anything? I called out their aggressors and then tried to escape.

I take a final look behind me - still nothing. I hobble up the steps to the station, it's only now that the pain in my legs is really taking hold. It's as if they've been crushed by a car. The station is warm, in stark contrast to the cold, white lights. At the desk I stumble into the arms of an officer. 'Mitchell... Knife... Ambulance.' The officer looks concerned, but she wraps her arms over my shoulders and asks, 'What's going on, sir?' Mitchell. Knife. Ambulance. Mitchell. Knife. Ambulance. I take a breath and let my voice settle. 'I need to report a crime.'

“Boom boom,” my heart beating in my ears. My legs moving as fast as they can. “Rattle rattle,” the chain slamming as my feet peddle. I look back and see the black hoodie trying to keep up. Bump after bump I ride over the potholes as quick as I could. I can see her blood splatter, like it’s stained in my eyes. Quick right and I slip into the garage as it closes. I stare out of a hole in the door and watch as the man slows and looks around for me. “Cough cough,” I turn around and see the bloody face of the girl, she smiles with her blood stained teeth. She starts running towards me… “ring ring” the sound of my alarm jerks me awake.

The thing I remebered most clearly was what she wore. It always seemed like people only ever wore those conventional yellow rainjackets in the movies. Well, not this time. Mr. Evans was impossible to miss; a bright yellow blob standing under his covered designated parking area. The light over his parking space was out, so he was dimly lit from the adjacent fixtures and the ones attached to the apartment building.

I was pedaling down Aspen Road, back towards my house, since it was just about dark now. I usually take my time when I ride, since it’s my preferred way of winding down each day. Some time to think and reflect. Well today I was reflecting in all kinds of puddles. I swerved all afternoon to avoid them, and went slower than usual to not crash.

I was biking slowly past the 300-building when I saw him. He’d walked out from under the breezeway on the bottom floor garage, and into the drizzle. By the time he’d made it to the parking stall he came to a standstill just as I pedaled by, only a few feet away. Though his rainjacket’s hood was raised, there was still no question that this was Mr. Evans. I knew his frame and face and all, he’d taught me social studies all year long back in 7th grade.

He must not have heard me riding up towards him, since as he turned the key in the driver door lock, he quickly pulled a gun out from under his rain jacket, and now that I was much closer the spatter of red along the right side of his jeans was visible. It left me to wonder what was under his yellow outerwear. I didn’t wonder for very long before he turned and saw me; our eyes locking for a few very, very long seconds.

He broke into a sprint in my direction. Yelling at me as he ran: “Cecile, it’s not what it looks like, slow down and talk to me!”

My legs have never pedaled quite so hard before. At some point he gave up, Evans never was in very good shape. When I got home I was shaking, and when they’d asked I told my parents it was from the cold rain. I didn’t know how to tell them what I saw. Just then, the news channel interrupted a segment which was filling the living room with the latest election drama.

Kelly Pierce, the charming blond anchor whom my dad smiled a little warmly at anytime she was on screen, was not in a charming mood today. My heart and stomach sank as I figured out how to tell my folks what had just happened to me. The anchor lady was describing the scene of a shooting at the Havenbrook middle school reported just about an hour ago, as the Knight’s basketball game began.

Knees pumping, Benji dug in. Parnett Road with its hill was always the hardest part of his route. He wondered why they even built hilly roads. Why not blast them out and make everything smooth flat? He’d asked his Pop Pop after he finished his paper route.

This afternoon he was delivering the Pick And Save. Some days were the Pennysaver Special or the Shopper Showstopper. The only difference Benji could tell was the colors. Stacked with cartoon blue rolled coupon newspapers, Benji’s canvas satchel pulled on his rib cage. Pop Pop told him to not think heavy, think of all the paperboys of all the times delivering papers just like he was doing. Benji thought all the paperboys of all the times probably all thought their satchels were heavy.

Effortlessly the paperboy weaved around impatient cars and unseeing pedestrians. He was fast but cautious. With a quick glance, Benji flung newspapers onto stoops. Perfect spinning paper arcs, each ended with a satisfying plop.

His mom had been so nervous about him delivering papers. Mom made Benji wear a helmet and a reflective vest and lights on his spokes and on the back of his banana seat. Mom quizzed him on stranger danger and read him a road safety pamphlet three whole times. Benji and his grandfather agreed that Mom was kind of extra but it was best not to try her.

At the crest of Parnett, the narrow row houses were replaced with old mansions cut into flats. For apartments, Benji had to stuff the circulars into mail slots, one newspaper for each unit. Stuffing 121, Benji looked up at 122 where the bird lady lived. Most afternoons Benji didn’t see his customers except for the real oldtimers.

Pop Pop told him it pays to be nice. Mom said respect your elders or she’d box his ears if she caught him with a fresh mouth. If the bird lady, who was like 100 Benji thought, wasn’t outside watering her flower boxes, she was in her penthouse kitchen. Benji waved. He always waved. No bird lady. One of the bird lady’s tenants came closer to the window. Benji had seen her before maybe. She didn’t wave back.

Her shirt was splotchy with red. Old but more mom old than grandma old, she must be helping the bird lady paint. Staring wide eyed at Benji, the dirty lady’s paint covered husband stood next to her. That’s nice, Benji thought as he stuffed papers in 122’s mail slot. Next was Mr. No Pants of 126 Parnett. Benji waved to him as well but only when he was on his bike and ready to bike away. Miss Can I Have Extras of 125 was waiting by the mail slot. Benji gave her double the amount and she gave him a quarter and a butterscotch candy.

After stopping to pet the dogs with the fancy walk from 134, Benji sailed downhill on Parnett. Flinging perfect arcs left and right, the paperboy picked up speed. Benji was excited. He was collecting coins with Pop Pop. He loved slipping the worn metal into the navy slots of his coin book. He would turn his treasure pages, each coin at little story. In his peripheral vision, he saw a red Honda inching up behind him. Mo the owner of the bodega shouted something he didn’t understand. Mo was having his afternoon cigar under his awning.

“Hey little man!” Mo shouted. “Watch your six. Drivers be crazy out here.”

Benji pulled over onto the sidewalk. There was a volley of honking horns and the red Honda drove on slowly. The paperboy delivered more circulars and then doubled back to the bodega for an Orange Crush. Mo called it gratis for the working man but Benji just knew it was free and delicious.

Swigging fluorescent orange soda, Benji turned on to Twickenham Terrace feeling lighter. Circulars landed with satisfying plops. He stopped to stroke the ginger cat who suns itself at 37 never noticing the red Honda parked on the corner. Benji waved at trainset guy as he delivered his last paper. He had to remember to ask his grandfather what gratis meant.

Humming, Benji headed through an alleyway shortcut home. He couldn’t wait to look at his new old coin. It was downhill from now on.

As the wind caressed my face cycling down the road towards my house, I didn't want this moment to end. I newly got a job and I couldn't wait to ride my bicycle after not using it for a long time. I checked my vintage wrist watch to see, what the time is, how many minutes it will take for me to get to my place of work. As I raised my faced my face to look where I am going. I noticed something strange. I stopped the bicycle to see clearly, blood, a man was carrying a corpse into the boot of his red car. Before, I knew it, I screamed, he noticed my presence. He carried the corpse and forcefully put it in the boot and came after me with a knife in his hands. For a sec, I was shocked, my legs couldn't move quickly, like I expected it to. The feeling was like I was drowning in a quick sand looking for anything to hold on to. As I rode my bicycle, going opposite of where I was coming from, I looked back to see him, entering his red car to chase after me. I began to search for a narrow alley he wouldn't be able to chase me into. The more I stare at the man driving the red car, the more I find him familiar. He was wearing a dark leather oversized jacket. He had a tattoo on his left side of his face.

Everyday after school little Gavin would bike home from school to an empty home. His mom usually got home one hour later. Gavin thought this afternoon when he left school was just a typical day. He knew the route like the back of his hand. He left campus rode to the end of the block turned right and rode two blocks up to his street. It usually took him no more than 20 mintues to bike home. On this day he left a little later than normal, which meant he was the only kid still biking home. The rest of the school that went home via bike had already left a while ago. He gets to the corner of the irst block to make the right turn, when he is shicked what Gavin sees.

Gavin has just watched a man shove a little kids into an unmarked van. The van went speeding off in the opposite direction that Gavin was needing ti ride. He turned the corner very slowly. He tries to make it seem like he saw nothing. The gentleman that grabbed the kid saw Gavin.

“Hey Kid, nothing to see hear.” The man says. Gavin keeps riding, but very slow and he keeps looking over his shoulder. Gavin is also hearing the kid scream from inside the van. Gavin realizes it is his classmate. He needs to get home so he can call the police and tell them. Just as Gavin starts to speed up the two blocks to home he realizes that the guy is following him. “Hey Kid.” The gentleman keeps calling. Gavin tries to ignore him.

Gavin has not made it the frist block toward his house. He is half way. Home. He keeps remembering what he just say and who was shoved into the van, so he cal tell the police. “HEY KID!” The gentleman helps now. Gavin looks over his shoulder to realize that the man is not far behind him. Gavin does not want to go straight home. He does not want the guy to know where he lives. Gavin must think quickly to see what he will do or where he is going to go. He must think quickly before the guy catches up the Gavin. Gavin is worried he is going to try and hurt Gavin also. Gavin keeps riding, just not sure where he is going to.

“Shit shit shit!” I moved my legs as fast as they would go. Hopefully on foot this person couldn’t get me. I only hoped I’d be fast enough to make it to the phone booth or better, the police station. This- person (I think) had no mask on but it was dark enough for me to not see its face. Only a block away from the police station and I was determined to make it. Unfortunately, my bike wasn’t as determined and we crashed into a pole. Shit. This thing was catching up. I ran until I slipped into the door but when I looked out the station window, there was nothing behind me.