It had been itching me for a while, to write something, that is. After almost a year's break, I had a scene in my mind, which I thought would be great for a thriller. Or something else. No idea. Whatever it's good for, it was quite nice to hit the keyboard again. It's unedited and copied/pasted exactly like I wrote it, so forgive any errors and tense slips. As you see, nothing can embarrass me. :-)
I ran. As fast as I was able to. My sides ached with every gasped intake of the night's freezing air, my legs hurt and became heavier with each step. Yet I forced myself forward. Away, I needed to get away from him. The sound of my feet hitting the ground echoed in the empty street; I tried to contain my staccato breathing in order to listen. Impossible. The wind in my ears was too loud. Has he given up? What would he do to me if he'd caught me? I stumbled over something—perhaps an uneven stone in the pavement—and lost balance, sending me flying to the ground. 'Fuck!' Even though I cursed under my breath, it felt as if I'd been shouting. Too quiet, the streets of London in the small hours. With now burning balls of my hands and knees thudding, I jumped back to a stand, panic becoming louder, so loud, I wanted to scream, but I knew that it would only give away my whereabouts, if my fall hadn't done the job already. I crouched like a sprinter in start position and … There! For a second the moon lit a tiny gap in the wire fence. With a bit of effort I'd be able to squeeze through it.
I could feel a sharp end cut into my arm; my hair got tangled up in what seemed to be thorny bushes which left their marks on my cool skin. In fear of injuring my eyes, I raised my hands, while I fought my way through the twigs; the moon had disappeared again, judging by the darkness that surrounded me. Finally, my hands reached into a void. I stopped to listen again. How was it possible for a heart to beat that loudly? I swallowed, bent over and rested my hands on my thighs. In and out, in and out, I thought to myself. Where was I? It's one thing to be unfamiliar with a new area you've just moved to by day, an entirely different one, though, if you can't see a hand before your eyes, let alone being chased by someone who carries a gun. With my breathing finally under control again, and not having heard any other sounds than a siren in the distance, I was hoping that he'd given up, or thought me being somewhere else. Slowly, I stood, trying to stop my legs from giving in. Crack!The sound of wood snapping under a heavy load—the weight of a man—made me whip my head in the direction I'd just come from.