A narrow hallway stretches out in front of me. Recessed halogen tubes hum softly and cast a gentle, gloomy light over the doorways to either side. In the distance I can see movement, a figure, but I can’t make out a face or much in the way of details. I see suggestions of movement and a hint of shape, a woman. Is she moving toward me, or is that, too, in my imagination?
In the distance I hear the plaintive cries of my compatriots, gently calling out for release; freedom, or perhaps just death. I don’t know how I managed to get this far without anyone seeing me, and every step I take unmolested further suggests the idea that this is all part of some game.
Rigid with fear, I try to discern if the woman has seen me. Do I run? There is nothing behind me save the hope of oblivion, but if it is her, the way forward could only be worse.
I see a defective light, and I crouch in the shadows its inadequacy casts. My body, broken, scarred, quiets its incessant complaining as I lean against the wall in a moment of tense solace. In the distance I see her open a door and walk inside. The door closes with a gentle click, and I seize the moment, push myself up, walk. I force myself to relax, to walk and not run, for the noise would surely alert her to my flight. As I pass her door I hear a gentle sobbing from inside, and I bite back my own tears.
I see streetlights ahead. I must not flee, but walk confidently out of the door. I hunker down into my coat, hunch my shoulders in an attempt to hide my face. As I step over the threshold, rain batters my face and the sounds of distant thunder roll past me. A breeze washes over me, and I shiver in the cold darkness of the city.
One of them walks towards me, past me. I feel certain that my bruised face and bare feet must give me away, but my presence is ignored. Shaking, I trudge softly through the rain, to the gatehouse in the fence. The guard seems uninterested, flicking through a dog eared magazine with one hand, a flashlight pointed at its pages with the other.
Head down, I push onwards and out into the city streets. They are deserted, but for a few late night drunks and drifters. I feel at once exhausted and more alert than ever, adrenaline pushing me further than I think my body can go. I turn down an alley, reeking with rubbish and animal waste, in an effort to cover my tracks.
Then it happens, in a moment that seems to take forever but could only have lasted an instant. From the gloom a body appears, large, imposing, and bears down on me. The blue lights appear in my vision again, and the face of a man twice my size is briefly illuminated as one hand grasps the blade of a knife he wields and the other reaches for his throat, tearing out his windpipe and I watch with fascination as his eyes grow wide and the life fades from them.
Before his body has hit the ground I am away, past him and back into the illuminated safety of the streets, wiping blood on my coat and now running, running far, running hard, running fast. I somehow find my way home and creep around the back to break a window. I climb through the shards, cutting my hands and feet and slink to the bedroom, upstairs. My heart slowing now, I lock the door and wedge a chair against the handle. On the bed, I sink into a fitful but gratefully received sleep.
In the morning, it all seems like a nightmare. My hands are clean, and I lie in my bedclothes. I begin to question the reality of what happened, when I see the picture on my dresser. The bloodied, wide-eyed face of the man I killed stares at me, and I turn over the picture, somehow knowing how the message will read.
“Congratulations.”
