Jeraline's Alley

by Becca C. Smith

  “Okay, okay, don’t hurt me,” I cried.

  Shakily, I began to hand him the backpack.

  I can’t give this man a gun! I can’t give this evil a weapon!

  The knife left my back as he reached for the pack.

  I slammed my foot on his right toe with every ounce of force I had in me.

  He grunted in surprise and pain, dropping the knife.

  I pulled my backpack closer to my chest and kicked his knife, sending it flying into the street.

  Where were the cars? Where were the people?

  It was as if time had stopped and everyone had been plucked out of existence, leaving only me and this criminal, this warrior of the alley.

  He recovered quickly from my attack and tackled me to the ground before I could run.

  My hand was inside my backpack as I desperately searched with my fingers for the weapon that would save me from this monster.

  The man yanked on my hand, trying to pry the backpack from me, and the way I kept the bag from him, he probably thought it held diamonds.

  Panic threatened to overwhelm me, and it took all my power to stay conscious. After I kneed him in the groin, the man yanked his head back in pain, slamming it against the side of the brick wall. Anger renewed, he wrenched my hand out of my bag and pinned both hands down, blood trickling down his cheek and onto my shirt from the wound on his head.

  Shaking his head in short bursts and blinking rapidly, he appeared to be trying to regain his focus. I took advantage of the moment and pulled one of my hands loose, reaching into my backpack again.

  And there it was.

  The gun.

  My savior.

  I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t see straight. I wanted him off of me. I wanted to survive.

  Jamming the revolver in his stomach, I pulled the trigger.

  Blam!

  The attacker fell limp on top of me.

  I gasped for air and pushed him off with the last bit of strength I had.

  The man lay on the ground, unmoving, blood streaming down his face.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  Was he dead?

  Was he dying?

  Should I call for help?

  Did I win?

  Why weren’t there people around to help me?

  I needed help.

  I . . . had to get home. I had to get away from him and the alley, his looming master behind us.

  I threw the gun back in my bag and tried to slow my breathing. The short, quick, panicked breaths were making me dizzy. Scrambling to my feet, I stared down at his unmoving body.

  I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I was too scared to check. I didn’t think I’d make it through another attack. From where I stood though, his chest was still. Not even a twitch.

  Not even a twitch.

  He was dead.

  He was dead.

  He was dead.

  One more time I searched for witnesses, but found none in sight. With one last glance at the attacker, I stared at the alley.

  It was silent, not a single sound, the blackness impenetrable.

  Was it trying to create another fighter? Another warrior to kill me?

  I couldn’t wait to see.

  I ran.

  Ran as fast as my legs would let me, the gun slapping against my side through my backpack.

  I’d shot someone.

  I’d killed someone.

  I . . .

  My mind jumbled into pieces.

  I needed Grams.

  Racing home, I swung the door open to our building, took the steps two at a time and finally let myself into our apartment. Bursting through the door, I was about to yell for Grandma when I saw her and Buster watching TV on the sofa, his arm wrapped sweetly around her shoulders.

  The scene of such normalcy frazzled my brain. I wasn’t sure how to react or feel.

  Grandma turned to me and smiled, happier than I’d ever seen her, eyes twinkling with contentment. “Hi, sweetie. So? Did you have your conversation?”

  Conversation?

  I just killed a man.

  I shot him.

  I couldn’t comprehend what she was asking me.

  Grandma leaned her head to the side in concern, the expression on my face obviously alarming her. “Is everything okay?”

  I couldn’t ruin this for her. I couldn’t take away her joy with my terror. Placing the backpack in front of me to cover my shirt and any signs I had been in a struggle, I forced a smile. “Fine. I’m totally fine.” Then I acknowledged Buster with a small wave of my hand. “Hey, Buster.”

  Buster’s eyes twinkled in the exact same way as Grandma’s. They were in love, and they had just met. I could see it. I wouldn’t let my horridness as a human being take any piece of bliss away from them.

  Buster replied, “Howdy, Jeraline.”

  Blam!

  The gun went off in my backpack, and a bullet hit Buster in the head.

  I jumped.

  Buster was fine, the gun safely tucked away.

  I was losing it.

  “Jeraline?” Grandma asked, her face crinkled with worry.

  Trying my best to hide the turmoil within, I smiled with as much gumption as I could manage. “I’m going to bed. You guys have a good night.”

  Too afraid Grandma would see right through me and figure out what I had done, I didn’t wait for a response. I hurried to my room and shut the door behind me.

  Why did she give me this stupid gun?

  But if she hadn’t, would I still be alive right now? Did I save others by killing a man?

  Bile reached the back of my throat.

  No. I can’t throw up. I won’t throw up.

  Swallowing it down, I sat on the edge of my bed and opened my backpack, pulling out the revolver. My hands shook heavily, but I managed to put it back in the box and stuff it under my bed.

  I barely had room to move in this space with the cutting table still out, so I crawled under the covers fully clothed. I didn’t want to take off my clothes ever, as if it were armor protecting me. It was a strange thought, but a strong one, and I listened.

  Police sirens grew louder and closer to my apartment.

  They’d found me, and they were coming to arrest me.

  Pulling the blankets over my head, I hid under the covers as if this would be enough to keep me hidden from the cops. The sirens faded in the distance, and I took a deep breath to try to regain some kind of composure.

  There came the bile again. Swallowing it down once more, I poked my hand out from the blankets, still not ready to come up for air, and grabbed the picture of Josh off the end table, bringing it under the covers with me.

  I didn’t know why, but it gave me comfort.

  I held on tight as I continued to breathe deep.

  What was I going to do?

  What was I going to do?

  What was I going to do?

  Breathe.

  Stop shaking!

  Breathe.

  My life was over.

  It was done.

  The police sirens were back. I peeked out of my covers to see flashes of red and blue light up my room in an eerie strobe effect. I ripped off my covers with my free hand, my other hand still holding the picture of Josh. Outside my window was an ocean of police cars.

  A pounding on my door.

  “Jeraline, the police are here to see you.” Grandma’s voice sounded worried and scared through the door.

  I turned from the window, rooted in terror.

  “Jeraline?” Grandma called my name again.

  Without thinking, I quickly locked the door and hid under my blankets again.

  The door handle rattled as Grandma tried to enter. “Jeraline, open this door right now. This is serious.”

  Grandma had no idea how serious. She was going to be so disappointed in me. How could she not? I was a murderer.

  A loud thump from the door being kicked in followed by the footsteps of people piling into my bedroom. My bla
nkets were yanked from my body, and I stared into the eyes of five glaring police officers, surrounding me in a circle.

  “You have the right to remain silent . . .” He began his mantra, the rest of his words sounding distant and warbled.

  I didn’t struggle as they pulled me out of bed. The second officer took Josh’s picture from my hands and handed it to another policeman. “What’s this?” he asked.

  To my shock, Rachel walked in and shook an accusing finger at me. “I knew it was you!”

  The second police officer waved Josh’s picture in front of me. “Add this to the list of charges.”

  The officer handed the picture to Rachel, who shook her head in disappointment and satisfaction at finally catching me.

  “No!” I screamed.

  ***

  I awoke in a cold sweat.

  It was a dream.

  I searched my brain in hopes that shooting the man from the alley had been a dream as well. But no, it was real. He was dead because of me, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

  Picking up my cell phone, I checked the time: 3:32 a.m.

  Trying to stop my body from shaking, I continued to breathe in deep, my eyes open.

  What had I done?

  My head hurt.

  My body ached.

  I think I’m paralyzed.

  I moved my arm. Nope. I could move.

  Everything that happened to me last night played over and over in my head. Maybe someone had seen what happened? Maybe the man hadn’t died? Maybe . . .

  I sat up in bed and grabbed my phone from the bedside table. Turning it on, I searched the internet for anything I could find on last night’s events, but nothing came up. No dead body reports, no arrest reports, no gunshot reports, just a whole lot of nothing.

  So what did that mean?

  Did this really happen?

  Had I made the whole thing up in my head?

  I looked down at my shirt, still on from last night, and sure enough there was his blood. I remembered now. It had dripped from his head wound when he had me pinned down.

  I choked, the memory too strong.

  Ripping the shirt off of me, I grabbed a T-shirt from the floor and put it on.

  My attacker was real.

  It happened.

  The alley may have sent him, but he existed. The flashback of his body pushing against mine, his hands trapping me to the ground . . . I shuddered, and my mouth burned from the acid crawling its way up my throat.

  No. It was real.

  So maybe if this guy was a wanted criminal, then the police might not report finding him dead? Maybe the cops would consider it a case of a bad guy getting killed by another bad guy. I could call the cops and ask, but I already knew I’d never do that.

  Touching the bloodstain on my shirt caused my heart to race. Should I burn it? Should I just throw it away? Bleach! People always used bleach in the movies. I didn’t have any bleach. I could get bleach. Did I really want to buy bleach? Could I please stop thinking about bleach!

  Murderer.

  I had to get this out of my head.

  I’d go insane if I didn’t.

  If the police found me, then I’d accept the consequences. I wouldn’t hide.

  Yes.

  Erasing what had happened wasn’t an option, but shoving it deep down into the recesses of my brain and living in total denial seemed like a good idea right now.

  I needed this to be the plan because the alternative?

  Paralysis.

  Terror.

  Guilt so severe I wasn’t sure how to live with myself.

  Why had the alley done this to me?

  Swallowing my feelings and emotions was something I was very good at.

  Distractions.

  I took the shirt and shoved it under my mattress. If the cops arrested me, I’d give them the shirt. Simple.

  The design contest.

  Before the attack, it had been my biggest source of fear besides Josh.

  I hoped it was enough to distract me completely.

  Reaching down to my backpack, I pulled out my sketchpad, thumbing through it until I found the flyer for the fashion contest. And now, staring at the flyer, entering and putting my work out there for all to see somehow didn’t seem as scary after the terror of the attack last night.

  Besides, going to Cassiopeia Design School was my dream, and this contest was the only reasonable path ahead of me.

  And if I won, if I achieved my wish and was able to go to school, I was pretty sure it was the only way of defeating the alley for good.

  It was a start anyway.

  If I put my portfolio together quickly enough, I’d have time to stop by the Cassiopeia Design School to drop off my application before work.

  It was a plan. I liked plans. They helped me forget.

  Grabbing the empty portfolio notebook I had bought over a month ago from my desk, I carefully tore out each design from my sketchpad, cut off the perforated edges, and placed them inside the plastic sheaths until the portfolio was full. It was the best I could do considering I waited until the last moment. Stuffing the portfolio inside my backpack, I left my room, quickly made a couple of meals for me and Hank, placed them into my bag, and I was off. I didn’t want to think about the fact that my Grandma wasn’t up yet, because I didn’t want to think about the fact that she may be in her bedroom with Buster. That thought almost erupted my brain like a volcano, so I shoved it aside as well and hurried out the door.

  It was a ten-minute bus ride to the Cassiopeia Design School campus, and when I set foot on the grassy lawn of the school entrance, all thoughts of last night’s attack melted away.

  It had worked.

  I had found the perfect distraction, the perfect bandage to cover and erase what had happened.

  My insides vibrated with excitement. I belonged here. I felt it in my soul. It was home.

  Resting in the center of the city, the school was a carved-out oasis of brick, ivy, and perfectly manicured lawns. Cobblestone walkways wended their way throughout the campus, giving the impression that the school was built long ago, but in reality, it was only a decade old. Large maple trees had been planted every twenty feet or so, giving much needed shade to anyone who wanted to spend their time outside on the black wrought-iron benches.

  Surveying the intense beauty of it all only reiterated my disappointment that it was a school I could never afford.

  Unless I won this contest.

  A part of me was glad that the terror of the attack led me here. I wasn’t sure I would have entered the contest otherwise. But thinking too much on that only caused the panic to rise up in me again, so I pushed it aside.

  The flyer stated that applications were to be turned in at the admissions office, so I glanced at the posted campus map and headed in that direction. Passing by other students buzzing about, talking excitedly, I imagined them discussing their designs or a particularly great teacher or . . . anything. The potential of it all gave me a momentary glimpse of what my life could be like.

  If I hadn’t murdered someone.

  Block. Blocking the thought and detaching.

  Detach.

  Breathe.

  Good.

  Grabbing the large silver door handle attached to one of the two ten-foot-high oak doors, I swung it open and walked down the hallway until I reached the admissions door and stopped.

  This door was much plainer with respect to the rest of the campus. It was quite ordinary, blond wood, school logo, and shiny silver doorknob.

  A turn of that knob and my path was set.

  My hand began to shake uncontrollably.

  Breathe.

  Bringing up my trembling hand, I opened the door and entered the admissions office. There was a large leather couch and chair that faced the receptionist, who sat behind an enormous oak desk.

  I could do this.

  Nervously, I walked up to the receptionist, who was a beautiful woman with a planned messy bun and clothes t
hat appeared to be casual but were perfectly placed to give the impression that she just naturally looked put together. My T-shirt and jeans weren’t cutting it at the moment, especially for a fashion institute.

  Acknowledging me as I approached her desk, the woman grinned in a way that said I’m really busy. What do you want? But what came out of her mouth was, “May I help you?”

  I jumped back when her face morphed into my attacker from the alley.

  As quickly as her face changed, it changed back, but now she glared at me with confusion. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Regaining my composure, I stuttered, “Um . . . sorry . . . is this where you enter the fashion contest?”

  “Yes, hold on one minute.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a form. “Fill that out. Do you have your portfolio?”

  Nodding, I pulled my backpack from my shoulders.

  “Perfect. Attach it to the form and turn it in here when you’re done.” The receptionist handed me a large clipboard.

  Taking it, while now trying to balance holding my bag by the straps, was an ordeal, but once I had everything situated, I sat down on the leather couch.

  Relieved to see that the application was only a page, I reached into my backpack and pulled out a pen to fill it out. My eyes briefly glanced at the window behind the receptionist.

  My attacker stood outside, staring at me.

  I closed my eyes, then opened them quickly.

  He was gone.

  Focus.

  Fill out the form.

  Luckily, a young woman walked into the office to distract me and approached the receptionist. “Hi. Could I get the application form for the fashion contest?”

  “Of course,” the receptionist said and handed her the form.

  Plopping down next to me, the girl pulled out her portfolio to get it ready to turn in.

  I gulped.

  It was stunning.

  As in, professional-level drawings that looked like they came from a top designer.

  I finished the application and pulled out my own portfolio. They were child’s drawings compared to the girl next to me.

  I can’t do this.

  The exit door called to me, telling me to bolt.

  As I was about to make a run for it, Emma from Jane Austen’s book appeared at the door, standing in front of it.

  “Don’t even think about it. You’re entering this contest.” Emma eyed me sternly.