I Started Writing To A Convicted Murderer Out Of Boredom, Now I REALLY Wish I Just Stayed Bored
By Vanessa Doe
I watched him pull out a cigarette box from his pocket. I unlocked the car – I could run, but how far would I get? He lit the cigarette with a hot pink lighter, his eyes focused on me the whole time. I would wait until he was done smoking, for the cigarette to fall to the floor, and then I would act — I had a split second to do this.
He took a couple drags. It was clear he wasn’t going to finish the whole cigarette. The ash was still hanging at the tip, he grinned at me. It was so an unsettling grin, as if he had been wanting to do this since the minute he got out of prison.
He dropped the cigarette.
I opened the door and jumped out, running as fast as I could, screaming for help. I could feel him right behind me on my heels. There was a loud burst, as the blazing fire engulfed the car. Something hit me on the back of the head – I couldn’t tell if it was debris from the car or Rob. All I know is that I saw black, and that was it.
My head was pounding; it had felt like I was shot in the head numerous times. I touched the back of my head, pieces of my hair smudged with blood and dirt. I cringed, trying to remove small rocks that were mixed in with dirt, only to cause more pain to my head. I was still in the woods, but I had no idea how long I was out for.