When It’s Your Turn…

He burst through the school doors, frantically tumbling into the empty hallway. He nearly tripped flying up the stone steps into the hall. He stopped for brief second to catch his breath. Sweat drops poured from his forehead onto his Airmaxs. He realized it was the first time he had used his running shoes for their intended purposes.

The school had been closed for some time and he hoped that this would make his enemy look elsewhere. As he walked down the narrow hallway, he passed empty classrooms with half-erased chalk boards still mounted securely to the stained walls. He walked past rusted lockers looking for a place to hide.

He found his way to the principal’s office, a place he had only been to receive news of his academic acheivements, contrary to the shock and disbelief of his former classmates. He made his way inside with ease — the door handle was no longer there — and slid behind the giant mahogany desk that still sat in the middle of the office. Although not the best hiding spot he could’ve found, the office was home to him. A safe haven in his days at the school where we was taught to go when things went wrong.

He figured this was surely one of those times

He was settling in under the opening where feet would normally go when he heard the doors to the school fly open. He contorted his body to fit the shape of the nook, attempting to take short, shallow breaths that allowed him stay alive — hopefully not just to be killed later.

As he sat in wait, wondering how much longer he would have on this earth — or have to stay scrunched up under a desk — he wondered how he had gotten here. He was a straight A student. He was loved in his community, known by many and admired by more. He was involved in his local church and volunteered where he could around town. He mostly kept to himself but had a few close people he called friends.

He never had any run-ins with the law although there were times where he was questioned by authorities about his whereabouts, with no indication as to why. But he knew that for the most part they were just doing their job and figured they couldn’t share much about their reasoning for questioning to not mess up a case they were working on. He never actually saw any of these possible cases come to public fruition but he knew there had to be a reason and this one seemed as likely as any.

As he thought over his life, he realized how much of how he behaved was to help him not become a victim at some point. He had only heard about the killer in town but had mostly been able to stay away from the areas where the killings happened. But he figured that maybe if he would present himself to be a loved, and needed, part of the community that would make him less of a possible future target. He realized how much of his life structure was being built around not being a victim. The thought having to come face to face with the killer was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

He had never seen the killer in person before but the folklore surrounding him was seared into the boy’s upbringing. The killer was anywhere between 5' 5" to 6' tall. Some described him — the killer was considered male by almost all accounts — as slender and unassuming, while others said him to robust and muscular. The boy never really cared what the killer looked like as he never wanted to find out which version was true for himself.

It was rumoured the killer was from the same town as the boy. Which made sense as his choice of weapons seemed to be everyday items one finds lying around. Knives, axes, rakes, anything that could stab, cut or poke. There were also accounts where rope burn marks were found around some the victims’ necks. It was assumed the killer liked personal ways of mudering his victims, wanting to be close to scene of agony and suffering. It takes a certain kind of evil to desire a front row to seat to someone’s demise. But seeing as no one except the local authorities had access to the exact police reports, the townspeople were left to piece together crime scenes based on rumours and tall-tales.

There were times, though, when the killer was caught red-handed and reprimanded. The boy figured the only times the killer went to jail were times when the evidence was too overwhelming to ignore by anyone. If there was a secret kabal of local and federal authorities helping this killer run free, it had to remain a secret for the killings to continue.

Being from a small town, the boy was familiar with having to sit through numerous versions of personal accounts with the killer. In a town of his size, nothing was off limits and your business was everyone else’s as well. So rumours flew like lost plastic bags around his small town regarding how to avoid being killed.

Some folks thought they were tough and figured they could take the killer on if ever confronted. He remembered a classmate of his that took this approach; he also remembered the blood-red carpet of the church where his classmate’s funeral was held weeks later.

Some folks thought the best thing to do was avoid where the killer normally goes. But the killer could go anywhere, as it was told. With the swagger of an entity possibly backed by local law enforcement, the killer could walk anywhere in town and feel comfortable.

Other people thought the best course of action would be to run. The boy agreed. As a student of old-school kung fu movies, he knew even great martial artists are found on record telling us even the best of those who can fight aren’t guarenteed to win every encounter. And so running was exactly what the boy decided. He had ran all he could, feet hitting the pavement like jackhammers springing him forward, hoping each step would bring him closer to safety and further from danger.

He listened as the killer nosily began searching each room for him. The sheer bravodo to make so much rucus didnt surprise the boy. The killer had gotten away with a lot these past few years. Even longer than a few years, according to the boy’s granddad. How was he able to do that?, the boy thought. Were there multiple killers? Had murdering been passed down as a generational right of passage, or was this killer simply copying and latching onto a legacy of death? It was hard to tell fact from fiction.

The boy was starting to become light-headed from all his shallow breathing. He knew he didnt have the time to find a new hiding spot, one suitable for both hiding and breathing. He shifted as much as he could without moving the desk. Does mahogany creak?, he thought to himself. He didn’t think now would be the time to learn the intricate ways of woodworking, so he played it safe and continued his shallow breathing; each breath a silent plea for help from anyone who might be listening.

30 minutes prior, he was simply walking home from the store. His mother had asked him to pick up some last minute items for dinner. His picked up the items and got himself a soda and some chips with the left over change. Walking down sidewalk headed home, he was struck with a feeling of coldness. He felt he was being watched.

He looked over his shoulder but saw no one. He figured maybe a chill in the air had suddenly come and he just needed to get home.

But the chill continued. He kept looking over his shoulder and seeing no one. When he turn back around the last time, he saw him.

He knew immediately who he was. Standing across the street from the boy was an unassuming male. He wore jeans and a t-shirt with a denim jacket. His boots were muddied as if he had recently been tracking through the wilderness. His hair disheveled and unkept, his gaze fixed squarely on the boy. In his hand was a small hatchet, small enough to hide from the public eye but dangerous enough to be taken seriously.

He thought about running home, at first. But he knew he couldn’t bring that kind of danger to his loved ones. He didn’t want to give the killer anymore possible victims today.

He thought about running to the local police station. Even though he knew the killer had connections there, he figured that at least one of the officers had to still have a stomach for justice. Even so, the risk that any of the officers that were tied to killer would out his whereabouts was to high.

He didnt know where to go, actually. So he ran. He dropped his bags and took off full speed around the corner. He could here the footsteps of the killer behind him. The louder they got, the faster the boy ran.

He ran through alleyways, jumping fences, crashing into gargabe cans, sometimes looking back to see if he had put enough distance between him and the killer. He could still here the grunts of effort as the killer copied the boys path.

He was running out of energy when he saw the school up ahead and figured that if he couldn’t run from the killer then maybe he could hide. But he would have to make it there first, and make there with enough time to hide.

So he kept running.

He cut through a path in the woods he took with his friends often. He jumped over the shallow creek and landed with a thud. He turned around.

No sign of the killer.

But he couldnt take any chances. He pulled himself and raced into the parking lot of the school. He was almost to the doors of the school when he heard the slashing of shrubbery nearby.

And here he was.

Sitting under the principal’s desk, he stopped his breathing for a moment to see if he could track the killer’s location from the noises being made.

Nothing.

Silence. Deafning quiet, except for his now louder than normal heartbeat.

Maybe he’ s gone, the boy thought to himself. Maybe he had actually survived being in the crosshairs of death. Maybe he would actually be able to go home and tell his parents about his harrowing experience. Maybe he would even stop by the police station and file a report, hoping his face, covered with fatigue that comes from sustained panic, would light a fire that would lead to the revolution that would finally decisively handle the killer.

Maybe, this time would be different.

Maybe.

As he began to climb out from under the desk, he knew.

As he tilted his head from the floor upward, he saw the dark, mangy silhouette of his destiny standing in front of him. It looked different than it in his nightmares. He now wished his nightmare-ish version was the true version.

The killer was expressionless. The boy searched its face for a trace of remorse. of mercy, of compassion or conflict. But there was none.

As the boy fell back to the floor, unable to keep himself upright. As he cowered into the corner, the killer raised its arms high above the boy, ready to descend with permanent force. It was then that boy remembered what he ultimately thought about every plan to avoid becoming a victim of the killer.

He thought they were all stupid.

Because, the boy realized, as he sunk deeper into the floor awaiting the life to come, he know that when it comes to killer: sometimes, its your turn.