I was taking a stroll down the street, hands in my pockets, my brain drifting away in the sea of oblivion. The bright neon sign next to a fancy cafe winked cheerfully at me. The street was deserted, not a soul in sight. My feet stomped on several puddles that had formed in potholes, sending up tidal waves of murky, stagnant water.
I was about to turn back and head to my dilapidated apartment when a shrill, agonising scream pierced through the silence.
I froze. Slowly turning back, a hideous sight greeted me maliciously.
It was a dead body.
A young, middle-aged man lay face down on the asphalt, a dark, crimson liquid pooling around him. His jacket was torn apart, and I could see the several deep rips in the pale flesh as if someone had done so in fury. Trying to fight the panic monster emerging from my gut, I stumbled over and placed my index fingers on the neck, trying to feel for the spark of life.
There was none.
I collapsed on the pavement, hyperventilating in fear. Spontaneously, a loud, mischievous laugh rang in my ears.
I spotted the murderer, staring at me with blood-red eyes. In the pitch darkness, I could only discern his black hoodie, and his mask, straight from the purge. That sight set imaginary spiders scuttling across my skin.
He turned on his heel and ran, the steady thump of his agile feet still echoing in my ears.
It was the last I saw of him.
Cover image by Furknsaglam / Pexels. The copyright of ‘It Was The Last I Saw Of Him’ belongs to Naga Pranav Patcha.