Eve

Turning around you failed to see anything, this was most likely due to the person who stood before you. Like a halo on an angel, leather stood with the light of the moon cascading around his broad shoulder.

 “Are you hurt?” He asked in a silent, gentle voice. Unsure of what to say you held your finger up for him to inspect. As he took it held your digit between his own he moved it to be revealed by the soft glow of the night. “I’m alright.” Your voice was soft as he moved him hand from holding yours to wrapping around your waist. Without words he sat you both down, with you taking position in his lap facing the way you had came. 

 It was then you noticed his chainsaw played beside you both, discarded. “Were you worried?” The question fell from your lips before you had time to think it. 

“I always am.” His voice, still light, was gruff compared to your own. It was comforting in the same way a deer may be comforted by the woods that surrounds it. 

 “It’s just a prick, I’ll be more careful.” Your attempts to comfort him came at the price of your minor injury giving way to attention as you temporarily focus on its ache. 

 “A prick today, a gash tomorrow, a stab wound next week.” He holds you closer as he mumbled these words to himself. One hand comes to once again cradle your own. 

 Gingerly you ask, “Was this an excuse to see me?” 

 The response you get is content and pleasing to hear, “If it were, would you deny me the privilege?” 

 “You know I wouldn’t.” With those final words uttered from your lips, your eyelids begin dropping. His warm body brings to you a feeling of peace, calming your mind as his broad frame wraps around you in safety. As you drift off into the land of slumber, you hear a faint voice. 

Panting, breathless, running. The hatchet at your heels hardens its grip. The man holding it, the psychotic, pathetic, stupid man. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t laugh, he just runs. Run to you. Run towards you. Run to retrieve the weapon lost. Your stamina is depleting, his steady. The woman with the clock eye to your left. The man with the hatchet behind you. Unlike her partner, she bares a grin as wide as her eye, blood shot and blown out. She laughs, she runs not at you, but with you. She mocks, she smears the tears you adorn with chewed nails. The same nails that slip through your skin with each swipe. 

“What’s the point in running?” Fabricated curiosity as if she doesn’t understand your struggle. You have no thoughts, only instincts, only the sheer grit it takes to just. keep. running. 

She needs no response from you. Her partner answers the call with humility, and an underlined emotion you can quite yet recall the word for, “She’s scared.” 

“Shut up, Rodgers.” The once smile she grazed at you discarded for the twitch of a frown. Venom laced remarks aside, you now know the name of one. The man with no emotion, the man you cannot see, the one behind, is Rodgers. A mental note left unchecked as you pace on. 

Two hours before this you were fine. Two hours before this you were sight seeing buildings left to rot by owners. Two hours before this you were planning a party. The only party to be planned now is a search party for your rotting corpse. That is, if you are left any but bones. 

A grab made for you is blocked by a gunshot. From which direction you are unsure. From whom you don’t know. The end result is adrenaline shots to your legs, lungs, and drive. You run faster, move quicker, taking in less and less of your surroundings till none but one stands alone. 

The color yellow flashes, and you're flying. 

Away from the people that chase you. 

Away from the unknown gun fired at your assailant. 

Away from Rodgers, and away from the girl with the clock eye.