Young Writers Society

March 18, 2014 was the day I died. It was rainy, heaviness in the air, and generally ugly looking. This year had been one of the toughest winters I had yet experienced. Whenever it snowed, it was around a foot. My dad would call me from Illinois and jokingly ask me to shovel the driveway.

The night before, I had gone out with some coworkers from the radio station I spoke for. We went down to a bar near Susan’s apartment. I had been significantly stressed that week because the new guy, Robert, basically bribed his way into his position. He always signed on as “Robbeh” as if that sounded cooler. And when off-air, he flirted with anyone of higher income than him. Now, he was my “equal”: also announcing music and generally hosting the station with me.

So, when Susan brought us to her favorite bar, I went all out. I got their oldest, nicest scotch and I’m not exactly sure how much. I didn’t blackout or anything, but I was tired. I had a bit of a drinking problem before I worked for 98.1. My dad had it worse though. When he drank, which was every day, he became aggressive and loud. He and I both could never think as clearly when drinking, and said or did some things we might not have when sober. At first, I felt normal. But then, a guy with a dirty beard and bad breath started hitting on me. I turned him down and went to dance with Susan and a couple other friends. He was looking at me for a while, but eventually left the bar. As soon as I felt lightheaded, I knew I was in trouble. I didn’t keep track of how much I had. Did that guy buy me a drink? I think so. I told my friends I was done for the night

“Oh come on” an intern, Maggie, said, “Don’t be a party pooper.”

“I’m heading home” I still told them.

“Do you want me to call a cab?” Susan asked me.

“No. No. I’m fine” I walked out.

I pushed the door open and met the humid, night air. I held my hand out to the curb, waiting for a cab. Not even at the edge of the sidewalk, I came face to face with a dark figure. The limited amount of light restricted me from seeing while they were that close to me. I definitely identified hair rubbing on my face and a foul smell. I backed up from him and said “Sorry, I need to get home”. “Sure, baby” He said. He approached me again, this time grabbing my wrists so tight that I couldn’t move. All I could concentrate on was the pain. I let out a whimper “Let me go” and he spat back at me “Shut up, slut”. My body felt electrically charged with fear. I was shaking, but I was pissed off more than afraid. I kicked him in the balls so hard that my shoe went far up into his body. He grunted loudly and let go of my wrists to hold himself. I started running home and I could feel my heart beat in my toes. I was so tired but I knew if I stopped he could catch up to me. I felt suffocated. I had to take a break. The second I stopped I could hear rapid footsteps behind me getting increasingly louder.

Panicked, I started running again. I changed my mind in going home, because I realized this guy would follow me and get me if I dared come out. My instincts kicked in and my new goal was to lose track of him. I turned down a dark alleyway and tripped on the edge of an overflowing dumpster. Suddenly, my face slammed on the ground and the whole front of me tingled in pain. I tried to use my hands to push myself up, but something sharp that I couldn’t see stabbed my hands. Half sitting up, I hesitantly touched my face. It felt horrible for my skin on both ends. My hands stung my face which felt exposed and moist. I was bleeding on most of the right side of my head and the dark shade of blood visibly masked my hands.

I turned around to see my attacker. The streetlights shone on his backside, and I watched his silhouette come closer. I gestured my hand out in desperation and said “Please” in such a quiet voice I never felt so small.

“You deserve to die” He growled.

He aimed a gun I didn’t know he had at me. I heard the gun go off and I closed my eyes. As the bullet pierced the surface of my skin, every nerve in my body cried out. There was a hollow pain, deep within me, then nothing. The last thing I remember was the worn out taste of scotch in my mouth, accompanied by blood.