It was never supposed to rain that night.
I clutched to my coat tightly, as my shoes splash through puddles. I rushed down the back alley behind the studio. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows that danced with each heartbeat. I should've taken the main street but the shortcut shaved off five minutes, and my mother doesn't tolerate lateness.
As I took a curve in the alley. I froze at the sight before me.
A man was on his knees, blood pooling beneath him. I noticed two others stood in front of him, dressed in dark suits, unfazed. One of them raised a silenced pistol. Aimed at the forehead of the man who was on his knees. He pulled the trigger, the gunshot was soft and silent. The lifeless body of the man hit the ground quietly.
I gasp and took a step back in shock as to what I have just witnessed.
The suddenly movement gave me away.
Three heads turn towards me.
I panicked. "Shit, I've been caught." I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me.
I heard footsteps behind me. "Stop!" someone barked. But I didn't listen, I kept running, scared of what my fate would be if they caught up with me.
I busted into the sidewalk, barely looking back as I sprinted across the street and into the road. Car horns blaring at me, lights flashing. Buh that didn't stop me from running. When I got to the train station I was out of breath. I ducked into the crowd, and vanished into the blur of noise and strangers.
But they had seen me face.
The next two days after the incident flew by in a haze of to-do lists and looming worries.
I had ballet classes, grocery shopping and my mother's soft coughing fits. But none of it felt real. Everything felt fragile, like i was walking on thin ice.
I didn't tell anyone about what i saw that night at the alley.
Not because i didn't want to, but because i couldn't. The moment I tried opening my mouth, the words refused coming out.
I became watchful. Checking over my shoulder more often. Always closing my bedroom window at night, even though it made my room feel stuffy. Shadows moved in the corners of my vision. Cars idled a little too long near my street...
I once thought i saw him.
Not the shooter, the other one who just stood there that night, watching like a judge at a quiet execution.
His face has been buried in my memory, too sharp and too calm to forget.
I caught glimpses of him across the street, through reflections in the bus window, beneath the awning across from the my ballet studio.
Always just far enough that I wasn't so sure.
But my instincts screamed "He was the one."
He didn't chase me, he was watching and waiting....