The Not-So-Sexy-Doctor

Chapter 1: The End of the Story

Present Times, Now:

I will admit, there was a moment of fear in my running. It surprised me, the shear eruption of it all, yet I expected it fully. It crept up on me, the inevitable factor of getting caught in my schemes. But it still felt so right, and I knew it had to happen.

They didn't bother with knocking on my door, and instead chose to knock it down. I stood in my living room for a brief second, then immediately took off towards the art room. There was no time to bother with being quiet, for I was already known, and my feet struck up a storm of noise.

The familiarity of that clung to the art room almost, but not quite, beat a chord of sadness in me, because I knew that I would never see it again. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and shoved the rattling shelf of metal supplies against it. The lightness of the shelf amazed me, and my adrenaline crammed body moved it with ease. My time was pressed, and my body knew it. If I wasn't so focused on getting to my destination, I might have sat and considered the unique sensation that flooded my body. I was delighted; I was terrified. I was both the hunter and the prey of the chase, playing each side carefully.

I ignored the thoughts begging to be pondered, and instead turned towards the blackened window. It dawned on me that I've never opened it in the entirety of time I've lived in this place. I placed my foot upon the desk in front of it, hoisted myself upon, and attempted to budge the crusted window open. It rose an inch and remained there.

"God!" I spat under my breath in frustration. I pushed the current project off the table to give myself more room. The wire wheelchair and its rusted blood creases fell to the floor with a soft ting.

Reaching into my nearby tool bin, I produced one of the flathead screwdrivers and tried to pry open the window. A loud slam to the door almost made me scream. I jolted roughly, for a moment making me fear that I shook my heart from my body. The shelf rattled violently, as did my attempts to open the window. Under my adrenaline mania, I wondered why the police never made small talk when destroying someone's house like this.

"Screw this. I can't do this." I twisted my arm backward crudely, and jabbed a crack in the window. The blow exploded in a spiderweb of glass. I struck again, until it finally gave out in structure, and a flow of wind greeted my face. Knocking off the remaining glass clinging to the edges, I hastily ripped off my jacket and pulled my body out. My tense landing onto the rusted fire escape seemed to feed into the fury of my pursuers. I bolted for the roof, making sure to leave a path of barriers in my footsteps.