Truth be told, I should not be here.

The daytime approaches quickly, illuminating my place of hiding. I was invincible, safe, guarded – but now the sobering sun inched up my legs, revealing torn up sneakers and faded jeans. Everything was coming to life; from the horses neighing hungrily around me, to the truck miles and miles away backfiring. The hay was even on fire – piles of sharp golden needles, all pointed in my direction. I dug into the nearest bale to retrieve my backpack and flask, and after a quick drink I realized that my supply would soon be out.

I searched through my backpack as silently as possible, looking for a clue as to where to go next. No way could I return home – after that night, the cops would be searching for me, my parents would have the intense memory loss from a nightlong alcohol binge. They wouldn’t know why that wall was stained with ink. They wouldn’t know why the ink was tinted with blood.

Murder, you assume. If only it was that simple.

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