Running Away from the Bad Man

Running Away from the Bad Man

I heard him first,

before the dark had time to warn me,

before my mind caught up with fear.

The scrape of boots,

slow, certain, wrong.

I told my feet to run,

but they froze,

like stupid things,

waiting for proof of danger

when danger was already breathing down my back.

No sirens, no help,

just cracked streets and empty windows,

no one looking out,

no one coming.

I ran.

I didn’t care how it looked.

I didn’t care if I fell.

Shame and pride are dead weight

when something worse is chasing you.

His shadow stretched past streetlights,

tall, broken, wrong.

Every turn I took,

I heard him follow,

calm as if this was just a walk for him,

but for me,

it was the whole fight to stay alive.

I thought about screaming,

but would it matter?

People shut their doors when bad things happen.

They draw their curtains,

pretend the night is quiet.

So I ran through alleyways,

through bins and glass and nameless filth.

I tripped once, skin split open,

but fear doesn’t stop to clean wounds.

I kept going.

Past where I knew,

past where I thought was safe.

He was always there,

close enough to feel but too far to face.

And facing him would mean the end.

I found a fence too high to climb,

but I tried anyway.

My fingers tore, my legs shook,

but up I went.

I didn’t know where it led.

I just knew it was away from him.

And for a moment,

when I hit the ground on the other side,

everything was quiet.

No steps,

no shadows,

just me,

broken, tired, breathing.

I lay there for minutes or hours,

I don’t know which,

and I let the fear drain out,

slow as blood from a cut.

I got up.

I walked away,

not brave,

not healed,

but free. And still alive