Slam. You turn around. Something moving in the shadows. Your heart quickens. Your head screams. Flee.
A note, sealed with wax, sits atop your dresser. You break the seal, delicately, and unfold the paper. A message, written in his hand. Come to the docks, it says, I have something to show you.
You turn away. An open door a few feet away. The shadows are approaching. Their footsteps get louder. You run for the door.
Something to show you? A surprise. A gift of some sorts? Your excitement builds as you fold the note closed with your fingers. Your curiosity must be sated. You will go to meet him.
Dim lights adorn the container yard. The black stretches out for what seems like miles. You hear the shadows breathing. Panting. Wanting blood. No choice. You run for the darkness.
You prepare yourself. A simple cotton dress, white. A pair of flat shoes. A plain black cardigan. No makeup. Well, maybe a little. Nothing to garish. Accentuate the positives.
A stone in your path. You trip. Face first into cold concrete. Your face is bleeding. Stained by blood. By dirt. By tears.
You arrive at the docks. It is dark now, but warm. A simple table, candlelit. An envelope with his seal.
You limp on towards the darkness. You seek respite. Shelter. Somewhere to hide from it. From the shadow. No use.
You break the seal slowly and open the envelope. A single photograph: you with a man – not him, the other one – at a table not unlike this one, kissing. Your hands shake. You turn over the photograph. A message.
You cower against the steel container, gasping for air, pleading forgiveness as the shadow draws its knife…
I know, it says. Start running.
Jimmy McKee 