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.'