Running from the Truth

Chapter One: The Truth

I remember screaming. It was loud, and clear, yet in my ears it was more of a distorted moan. Her body lay on the floor. I knew it wasn't my fault, but it somehow was. I ran to the body, tears gushing from my eyes. I reached forward. My hand recoiled as my skin grazed hers. In this moment, I felt like I was watching her from a television screen; she was untouchable. I traced her wound with my eyes. A knife was buried in her flesh, right where her stomach was.

I screamed again, louder this time, but it ended in a choked sob. I begged for her to be alive, I begged for it. My hands trembled uncontrollably, so much so that I had to rest them on the floor to make them stop. The knife. It shouldn't be there; it doesn't belong there. I steadied my hands and I placed them over the dagger, but before I could pull it out, I heard sirens, all around me. Footsteps, dogs, the screech of tires.
I had been framed.

I picked myself up. I didn't face the police. I didn't stop to beg for mercy, to tell them I was innocent. No, I just ran.

I wasn't fast, or slow for that matter, but I was smart. The sirens wailed behind me, and I couldn't run forever. The dim light of the alleyway lit up a small hole in the bricks. I ducked inside, and I crawled to the far end. I didn't breathe, I just stayed pressed against the wall. I felt my short, chocolate brown hair brush my neck as I turned to peer out of the hole, cautiously. I took a moment to compose myself.

I remembered back to that moment. That moment when they asked me where I live. I thought we were friends, after spending hours on end together over the internet. I was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course it wasn't my address, but Megan and I went there often, so I thought it was a good place. I went to meet them there, but Megan beat me. They killed Megan, and if she wasn't there, they would have killed me.

Voices neared my hole and I cowered into the darkness, but, miraculously, they kept walking. I heard short snippets of conversations.
"... Getting away..."
"... Murderer..."
I let out a short breath and slumped against the wall. What am going to do? I can't go back home, I might get caught. I can't keep running, I have no food or money. I am going to die, accused of murder, but honestly innocent. But all of a sudden, I knew what I had to do. I had to find him. The killer.

I crawled out of the hole when I was sure that I was alone. The alley was wide enough to fit a car, but only one. Broken street lamps littered the road, and only one remained standing. I stood up, and I ran.