I Started Writing To A Convicted Murderer Out Of Boredom, Now I REALLY Wish I Just Stayed Bored
By Vanessa Doe
I panicked, Rob – where was he? I lifted my aching body off of the ground. Something was stuck to my left leg, I looked down; my jeans had caught on fire, skin scorched. I fingered the hem of the jeans, slowly pulling it up towards me, wincing as skin came off with the material. I gagged at what I saw – lots of blood, burnt skin, some to a point where it looked like it was something out of a movie.
A twig snapped nearby, I turned my head looking in the direction. I couldn’t see anything. I had to get moving, if I remained here any longer I was just waiting to die. Rob didn’t come all this way to stalk me and set my house on fire, no, that would ruin the fun — sadistic murderers liked to torture their victims, see how much they can suffer before reaching their breaking point.
I stood up, the weight of my body on my burnt leg sent waves of pain, making me fall back down. I was not going to let him get the best of me; he was not going to win. I tried to regain my strength, using a small rock to push myself up. I looked down at the rock and bent down to pick it up.
I began to limp towards one direction, unsure if I was going deeper into the woods or going towards the edge, where civilization was. The only light to guide me was that of the moon, my phone was in the car – or whatever was left of my car now.