Source
The night hung over the city like a dark and disturbing cloak. With stealthy movements, I got out of bed, taking care not to disturb my companion's sleep.
I tucked her in carefully, placing some pillows around her to make her comfortable.
I tiptoed out of the room, closing the door carefully. I grabbed my keys, a dark cap, slipped on my tennis shoes and slipped on a black jacket.
It was time to venture out into the deserted streets of the night.
I walked down the stairs and out into the car park. The pavements were empty, the city in stony silence.
Still, every one of my senses was on high alert. My heart pounded violently, my breath hitched with every step I took.
Like a cornered animal, I walked crouched, hiding in the shadows cast by the few streetlights.
I had been locked up for six months, terrified at the thought of facing the outside world. But tonight, desperation drove me to explore these dark places in search of my last hopes.
After an hour of tense, watchful walking, I arrived at the bar that was my destination. I knew the back entrance well, the one for the employees.
I slipped inside stealthily, thankful to find no one in my path. Every nook and cranny, every dark corner, seemed to harbour a hidden threat.
Just when I thought I had managed to enter unseen, a figure materialised in front of me. It was a waitress, trying to catch a glimpse of my face under her cap.
My heart skipped a beat, and the fear I had been holding back burst out in a gasp.
In an instant, I was caught up in a maelstrom of frantic movement. The waitress struggled with me, struggling to remove the hood that concealed my identity. In desperation, I grabbed the first thing within reach: a glass bottle.
What followed was a blur of screams, blows and blood. When the mist cleared, I found myself kneeling beside the woman's limp body, soaked in a crimson puddle.
Terror gripped me as I realised the atrocity I had committed. The night, once my refuge, had become my worst nightmare.