Don't Hurt Me

Chapter 1

My footsteps aren't the only ones resounding over the hard, damp pavement.

There is another pair behind me. They're close - not more than five feet away, but I don't give it much thought. I'm not worried, although I probably should be. It's late at night. I'm out on my own, far away from home. And this is not a pleasant neighbourhood I'm walking through. It is dank, dirty, and there is something hungry about this place - like a beast lying in wait for its next prey. This is the kind of place where muggings happen every day, where gangs crawl the streets, where people have nothing to lose because that's exactly what they live on - nothing.

There are no cutesy houses with picket fences and green front lawns, only tired brick apartment buildings with hole-ridden porch steps, separated by grim, misty alleys. Graffiti decorates every possible surface, and half the streetlights I pass don't work, adding to the darkness.

No one is around. No one other than the nameless ambler behind me.

It's quiet, cold, and every bit dangerous.

But I keep walking. Coolly. Normally. Head up, and eyes roving, hands buried deep in the pockets of my coat. I have shifted into big-shot mode. I'm not scared. I'm not scared to fight if someone tries to be funny with me.

I glance ahead. I'm walking along Toledo Avenue now. I can see the street sign up ahead. There are no cars around at this hour, and the road is a slick strip of rain-spattered asphalt. On the other side of the street is an empty ballpark, closed in by high silver fence. It's amazing how eerie everything looks under the cover of night.

I sigh, removing my hands from my pockets and rubbing them together for warmth.

This is exactly what I needed. A good walk by myself to think. No crowd, no noise. Just me, the cold weather and these rough, run-down streets. I know I shouldn't be sneaking out on a whim like this. But who cares?

The footsteps continue to echo behind me, keeping pace. Strange, I think to myself. He's been on my tail for several blocks now. Where's he going? And when is he going to veer off?

Or .. is he .. ever going to veer off?

Taking a deep breath, I turn my head just a little as I walk, tilting it to the side and dropping my chin downwards so I can see behind me. All I catch is a pair of scuffed up shoes, and the edges of baggy army green pants.

I don't dare look at his face, so I face forward again with a snap of my head. My mind is racing. Suddenly, I don't feel so tough and fearless anymore. I don't want the opportunity to chew out some jerk, loser or creep. I don't want it. I don't want anything. For the first time, I wish I was at home.

Right then, an idea occurs to me. An idea to test if I am just overreacting. Being paranoid or not.

Sucking in a breath, I step onto the street, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, as if I was planning all along to cross only at this particular spot. Even though the road is deserted, I look left and right as I cross, using it as an excuse to widen my peripheral vision and get a good glimpse of whoever's behind me.

He's older than I expected, big-sized, with thin, pale hair sticking out from underneath a ski cap pulled down to his brows. He's decked out in loads of oversized clothing, and like me, has his hands buried deep in his pockets. He pauses for a moment on the sidewalk, lifts his head and ...

... crosses the street.

He's crossing. He's following me!

I stare at him in disbelief, and briefly, his eyes hold mine.

I see nothing in them. They are just ... empty and cold. Whatever is behind that gaze, whatever he's thinking, I don't like it.

I hop up onto the opposite sidewalk, telling myself to keep moving. He follows. He walks quicker.

My throat tightens over a lump, a sickened panic rising inside me. I am starting to feel cold, truly cold. It's a feeling that's coming from the base of my spine, spreading through me and slowly turning me numb.

He's getting closer. His shadow is fast approaching mine, stretching longer and larger than my own. His presence surrounds me, suffocating.

I don't know what to do. My mind is now both a blank and a blur. Will he grab me? Point a gun at my back? Stab me? Push me on the ground?

And, for God's sake what do I do? Run? Fight? Stop and scream?

A sudden movement catches my eye. But not from behind. Up ahead, in the distance.

A group of guys have just emerged, rounding a corner and appearing on our sidewalk. There are maybe five of them or so. They're smoking and talking, clad in leather and denim, flashes of silver in their ears and tattoos snaking across their necks. At first they don't notice me. They are busy laughing and cussing as they pass around bottles of beer.

Then one of them looks up, nodding to the others. They turn their heads, looking in my direction, and I falter. What now? Should I keep going?

The moment Weirdo sees that there are other people around, he comes to a stop, shoes squeaking.

"Check this out," one of the guys in the group says, twisting his waist and facing me.

My eyes widen. I shake my head in confusion and fear, trying to get away. I am so edgy and clumsy, I stumble and almost lose my balance. That's when I realize the punk gang wasn't looking at me at all. They're looking at Weirdo. They're looking at him in a really bad way, and he knows it. In fact, he seems to have forgotten all about me. He's frozen stiff, staring back at them like a cornered animal.

I straighten up, my gaze shifting between him and the group. What is going on? Do they know him?

The ringleader breathes a last puff of smoke and tosses his cigarette aside. By now, Weirdo is darting his gaze around, looking like he's having a fight-or-flight moment.

"Come on!" someone yells. The next thing I know, everyone's running. Weirdo is running away, and the punk kids are running after him. But he's not fast enough. They don't make it two blocks before the gang catches up to him. To my horror, they knock him to the ground, pummeling his cowering body. Vicious kicks and punches fly. I hear the man shouting and crying for them to stop.

They don't listen. They don't care. He's at their mercy, and he gets none.

I inch away, my breaths coming out in a jagged rhythm. This is too much. This is just too much for me to take. I have to go, now.

I whirl on my heel, meaning to run, only to end up colliding into someone's chest. I let out a yelp of surprise, and someone's hands reach out to steady me. Startled, I look up into the face of a stranger. A teenage boy, probably a little older than me, stares back at me calmly. He is tall and lean, with thick dark brown hair that falls across his forehead and over the edge of his ears. His eyes, locked on mine, are a wild, vivid green.

For a moment, he darts his gaze to the beating taking place just a short distance away. He isn't alarmed or scared at all.

And that's when I realize it.

He's one of them. Those are his friends.

I don't know why he stayed behind, not joining in the violence. All that matters is now he's here, holding me.

I make a sharp movement of my wrists, flinging his arms off me. He raises a brow at me, looking surprised. The cries and yells start to die down. Despite myself, I look over my shoulder one last time. The rest of the group is just about done with Weirdo. He's alive, but his groans and laboured coughs indicate the kind of pain he must be in.

I don't know what's going on, but I'm not keen to stay and find out. None of this has anything to do with me. I just need to get out of here. I break into a run, darting around the strange boy with the startling green eyes.

"Hey, wait!" he calls.

But I won't. I can't.

I keep running, running, all the way down the street.

I will not stop, I tell myself. I will not stop.

Not until I have made it home. And when I do ... I'll have to face a whole other story.