I've never felt fear this consuming.

There once was a time — eight years old, I believe. My mother had dragged me over to a crack house. It wasn't for a day visit either. Turns out she needed some place to cast me aside so she could go in search of her runaway boyfriend. Even as a kid, I figured that if she succeeded, it would be the end of us. So I prayed and hoped and wished she would come up empty handed.

It worked. She came back for me a week later.

Oddly enough, that wasn't the last time she left me high and dry. Seventh grade, a week before summer break; when I'd wept because I thought my mother had abandoned me, only to find that she'd taken a trip with some friends of hers without letting me know.

It was the fear of uncertainty, loneliness, and the hordes of people drugged up on cannabis.

But this fear is something new. It's crippling, petrifying. It's as if I'm being shadowed constantly, and I have to keep looking over my shoulder to make sure there's no one there. Only, there is someone there, and he's made it his primary mission to terrorize me.

I can still taste the stench at the back of my throat. That dreadful, rancid smell. Decaying flesh. Combined with the image of those gash wounds, I can barely hold myself together.

So I stop trying. I rush to the bathroom, hair already tied back, and empty whatever's left in my stomach. I'm surprised there's that much left. I haven't had much to eat since that night behind the shop.

How can I get myself to calm down? For starters, I could stop replaying the images in my head. The knife - it had been so close. If Colt hadn't moved it out the way at the very last moment, I'd be at the ER this minute. Or maybe that would have been his incentive to get rid of me entirely.

The cut has since stopped bleeding, and now all that's left is a bright red puffiness. It stings, hurts. His victims must have been subjected to much harsher pain. I wonder how it must have felt, having the machete slice through her chest, severing her lungs, exposing her heart, ceasing her life. Feeling every bit of pain, and yet unable to do a thing.

This is all the work of the devil. The work of Colt Bradshaw.

Class starts and ends without me attending. I can't face him, can't risk running into him. So I hole myself up in my apartment the rest of the day, with a surprise visit from Jenny. I guess my vague response to her curiosity over my absence tipped her off.

Still, it feels good having someone here. It feels so good that somewhere at the back of my mind, the lid holding back my frustrations uncovers itself, and all the emotions come pouring out.

"Jenny . . ." I croak, embracing her. And before I know it, I'm sobbing in her arms. The tears feel good, satisfying. Much better than weeping in the middle of the woods with no one to judge but a murderer.

Jenny doesn't ask any questions, only allows me bawl until I'm all out of tears. And it takes a while. I didn't know I still had that much in me.

Then we're on the couch with my head against her shoulder, and her arms still around me in an embrace. Perhaps this is all what I needed.

Jenny leans her head against mine. "Wanna talk about it?"

If it were any other dilemma, I would have spewed it all out already. But this is possibly a matter of life and death, with more lives at stake than just mine. Who knows what Colt would do if I roped Jenny into this predicament.

Instead, I feed her something vague. "It's just life being a bitch."

She nods, digesting the answer. There's something about her cologne that strangely calms me down. Lavender. "Honestly, you're way stronger than I am," she says. "I don't know how you do it. I probably would have ended it all by now."

Oh, you have no idea. "I guess I keep holding on to some hope that things will get better."

"And they will." She allows me go and turns to face me. "You know that saying, 'There's nowhere to go except up', or something like that?"

I nod, knowing she butchered the saying but still understanding her point.

"Well, this is the turning point," Jenny continues. "You've already hit your lowest point. This is where things start going up."

I can't tell her that that doesn't apply in cases of murderers and hostages. How are things supposed to get any better from here? Unless I somehow win the lottery and purchase a one-way ticket out of the country.

Somehow, I find the entire thing comical. This is definitely a low point, alright. Just not the lowest. It's the idea that this is supposed to be my turning point as Jenny mentioned. The only thing turning is the wheels in my head as I try not to go insane.

And yet, I burst out laughing. Yeah, this is my turning point - mentally, anyway. Perhaps I'll just end up pleading insanity. At least my enemy will be my own self and not Colt Bradshaw.

Jenny looks me sideways, unsure of what to make of my laughing fit. "I take it the pep talk worked?"

The laughter simmers, and I give her an incoherent, "Yes."

"Good." She leaves the couch and heads for my closet. "There's a party tonight and you're coming with me."

"I don't know, I have the café and-"

"Fuck the café. They don't care about you anyway."

She's not wrong. And this could be the perfect chance to get my mind off him. Forget. It may only be temporary, but it's a start.

So I join Jenny on her night out at the party. Are sorority houses supposed to be this grand? A mansion this size for a couple girls in faded jeans and white tank tops. Must be nice.

Still, it must cost a fortune renting this place, only for it to be thrashed to this degree. Red solo cups on the ground, bushes full of puke, music so loud I can hardly hear my own thoughts.

It's even more chaotic inside. I don't have time to soak it in though, because Jenny drags me towards her friends, who have made themselves comfortable by the liquor table.

There's a guy and two girls, all with a cup of some drink they concocted. The girls are merry when Jenny introduces me. The guy, however, is far more interested in Jenny to do the same.

You would think he would at least invest in some razors with how thick his beard is. I wonder if he knows it ages him, makes him look like shit. But then again from the ghastly alcoholic mixture in his cup, he probably cares little for himself.

On top of it all, he ignores me. Doesn't even utter a word. I almost laugh. What does Bigfoot think I could possibly want with him?

But this is usually how it goes. Jenny brings me around her friends, we learn each other's names, then the conversation continues on. Mostly without me.

It's in cases like this that I study Jenny. There's a certain aura around her that influences others, attracts them. Everything about her must be effortless, from the clothes she wears to the way she carries herself. A complete natural, she is.

A couple more minutes of chatter later, we get a new visitor. Another friend of Jenny's. She whispers something into her ear, laughs, then shows her some news on her phone that's apparently too funny, because Jenny bursts out laughing.

The ingrown talk continues on for more seconds until Jenny turns to me, and with a giddy smile, says, "I'll be right back."

I nod and wave her goodbye, but I know it will be a while before I see her again.

Meanwhile, the rest of her clique fades out. After all, their reason for being there just left.

Once again, I'm stuck alone.

I can't let that spoil the mood. I came here to forget. To feel something besides misery. And since I called off work, I might as well make the best of it.

So I get a few drinks in my system to loosen up. I'd rather not admit it, but I'm much more fun to be around when I'm tipsy. Much more talkative.

I end up knocking down one too many drinks, however — enough to fill my bladder. I need to find the restroom.

Perhaps it's the lasting effects of the alcohol, or the fact that I'm in a hurry. Or perhaps it's both. But I can't quite see where I'm going. God, why is this place so packed? I weasel my way through somehow, until I run into something solid. A stranger.

"Sorry—" The words are stolen right out of my mouth when I see exactly who it is.

You know when your heart does a couple laps in your chest, when your mouth runs dry, and your cheeks grow hot? That's exactly how I feel currently, except I'm doing a much better job hiding it than I did in middle school.

His eyes are how I imagined the earth would be if it weren't so polluted — clear and brown. His skin is the same shade, if not darker, with hair the perfect color of midnight. The sun must love him. Sculptors as well because his stature, I'm sure, is what they have in mind before carving into stones.

Who knew I was such a poet?

And his smile. Just perfect. But even more perfect is his voice. Low and yet smooth. "Don't worry about it. Watch your step."

I want to say something. I should say something. But he greets me goodbye and goes about his way before I can formulate anything coherent. Just like that, one of the most attractive guys I've ever seen disappears.

I wipe the disappointment off my face, frustrated at my inability to yet again do a thing. If it were Jenny, she'd already have his phone number down, a date set, or even just his name. Why can't I be brazen for once?

After minutes of stewing in displeasure, I lock the encounter away and continue my journey towards the restroom. It's probably for the best. I'm never going to see him again, anyway.

The closest restroom I can find is situated at the end of a hallway, where there are fewer people around. This must mean there's no occupancy. Perfect. I grab the handle and push the door open without thinking twice.

But not only is the restroom occupied, it's occupied by the one person I don't want to see. Colt Bradshaw. And he has his tongue down a girl's throat.

I contemplate shutting the door and pretending nothing happened. But then that damned image skyjacks my head once again. The one of the woman and the gash wound. The one of her eyes open, mouth wide, tears of pure terror. It doesn't leave this time. It just sits there, reminding me that it could very much happen again.

This girl must be Colt's next victim. Classic murder technique. Lure them in with pleasure, then when they've let their guard down, you butcher them with a machete.

I won't let that happen. Not on my watch.

With newfound resolve, I grab the fire extinguisher off the wall and turn the muzzle on the two, drenching them down until there's nothing left inside. Until I'm certain I've completely ravaged Colt Bradshaw's plans.