#WritcoStoryChallenge
The footsteps following me sounded closer. I ran through the empty corridors of the hospital, my heart pounding with terror.
I turned a corner and stopped short. I had reached a dead end.

There was no way forward. And I could not go back because the footsteps were getting louder and closer. I didn't know what to do. I started trembling and biting my nails, an action I'm addicted to whenever I'm in a helpless situation.

I wished the walls or ground could just open for me to jump into. I didn't care where it would lead. Hell would even be fine. As long as I was not with this person. As long as this person would not be there.

Oh, no! People like this belong in hell, so no. I don't want to go to hell.

I looked up and saw him. He was smiling at my helplessness. He had a sickle with him and I knew what he wanted to do with it. I was also aware of his reason.

I saw him kill my mother. That was the reason I am traumatized. I'm in the hospital for proper treatment, but he wouldn't even let me be. He wanted to kill me.

He walks closer to me and grabs my neck. I started struggling to breathe. I couldn't even scream for help.

I was born with a tongue that could not be lifted. I couldn't speak. Realizing there was nothing I could do, I closed my eyes and waited for my death.

Seconds later, I opened my eyes when I couldn't feel any pressure on my neck again. He's on the floor and he's not moving. I looked closer at him and I'm shocked.

He is dead.

© Truve