Try Not to Cry

Chapter 2

 It took me about fifteen minutes to drive back home where I climbed the stairs to my room, and shut the door behind me. I pull off my jacket and shirt and toss them on the floor, backing away from the stained fabric until I bump into the door, reminded easily of how I was just stabbed and killed. But did I really die? I don't even know who either of those people were! 

 Looking down, I see that there is no mark whatsoever on my body. Although I knew somehow because the pain was gone, it was still shocking as I feel the spot where a knife was sticking out only twenty minutes ago. My hand quivers, still imagining the feel of it, and I slide down the door into a sitting position with my knees up. Tears start to well up in my eyes as I try to remember the details, but it just gets hazier as I do. 

 I stay still in the silence of my own fears for a while before my mind is willing to put aside the terrifying experience and actually think for a minute. First thing, I should file a report to the police, I think. But how are they going to believe such a ridiculous story when I have no real proof besides the blood on my shirt? Yeah, because that's surely convincing enough.

 I stand up and decide instead of trying to clean the stain, I should just chuck the clothes all together so I'm not caught wiping blood off my shirt when my mom comes home.  And, as a last terrifying thought, I realize I cannot tell anyone about this.

 My hands begin to shake again as I start to regret going for a walk in the snow just on the side of a two-lane road just after 10. 

 Why did I happen to be there at the wrong time? It's not like this area is known for violence. But, more importantly, what was that guy shouting at me? It's almost like he mistook me for someone else... I hope.

 I bundle my jacket and shirt together in a ball in a way that nothing is seen, put on my shoes, and walk outside to the end of the driveway to dump the clothes in the trash bin.

 For a second I pause, wondering if I should've just burned them. But, no, I knock the idea down, deeming it a terrible idea. Especially where my neighbours would be asking about it. 

 I jog back up the stairs and shut the door behind me, kicking off my shoes and going back upstairs. By this point, my mind has circled around back to the killer, and I feel too sick to do any more thinking. I get changed and walk around the house once before I start feeling like I'll throw up, locking all of the doors and windows, and get into bed. 

 I have to take two sleeping pills before I can fall asleep.