Chapter One: How to dig your own grave

Someone is following me. 

I hear their footsteps behind me. It's careful and slow, as though they are creeping with the tip of their toes. I don't see them, but I’d be damned if I dared to turn my head back. Not when they seem to be inching closer by every second that I increase my steps. When I dare to dart my glance towards the corner of my eyes, I see the sinister, brooding shadow hover around mine. 

I gasp and walk faster, boots stomping against the wet tarmac as my steps quicken. Mud and water splash behind me and drench my already tattered clothes, but that's the least of my problems. I couldn't possibly look more homeless than I already do. 

It's dark, it's cold, it's lonely. It's raining too and I have no umbrella. The path I am walking on has nothing on its sides but ugly, dead bushes with leaves that crinkled against each other. Dying in front of me. Everything around me screams death; grim following my every step like a vengeful killer. 

I haven't offended anybody all my life. Or, at least, not enough for them to want me dead. Everything I ever did wrong to anybody was for a reason. Like in Kindergarten, for example, I laughed at my best friend for wearing flops to class because the cool kids, who were just starting to like me, thought it was funny. That was the last time I had ever heard from Quinn again; she didn't seem to understand that I genuinely didn't find her family's poverty situation funny and it was just an act in front of those cool kids. 

And then there was Mateo in middle school who had a crush on me. I thought we were friends, but nothing could have prepared me for how he reacted and called me a ‘traitor’ after I took him to the school dance over a money bet. I needed that hundred grand. And if he had cooperated with me, instead of being so sensitive, maybe we could have spent the money together. 

Maybe the case of Sharon from highschool could have been a little controversial. But, in my defense, she was dating a guy that I had liked since my freshman years. I didn't mean for her to break so many bones that day I pushed her down the stairway; in all honesty, I just thought that she would break only enough to get her unavailable for school prom. Not land her in a fucking coma. 

I don't deserve to die in the hands of a Killer. I am way too innocent for that kind of fate. 

“Indigo.”

It called my name. 

My killer called my fucking name. 

This was my cue to run, to scream, to fight. My sister had taught me a few deadly judo moves, and this was my time to turn around, grab the bastard, lift them into the air and drop them down on the wet tarmac with a sharp shoulder throw. 

But, no, with all the common sense bestowed upon the human race from the higher ones, my best move was to freeze.

Just stand there, frozen like a stick.

Turn around.

And, look my damned killer in the eyes. 

“Indigo…”

Only, that my ‘killer’ is not in front of my face. I had turned around with such sharpness and alertness to face nothing. Nothing, but stray leaves swaying in the breezy, lone air and dancing against the sidewalks. 

Nobody is there. 

But, I could have sworn I heard someone whisper my name. Twice. Faintly. It felt like it had come from a distance. Those busy forests in the distance started to raise my suspicion. But, I have flaunted enough foolishness for one night. If my killer is not a figment of my own imaginations, I shouldn't be standing there trying to analyze their whereabouts or next moves or even driving motives... 

I should run. 

The crazy part in all these is that no matter how fast I run, I can't shake off that feeling of being followed. Closely. Carefully. Intentionally.