Davidson St.

• Zoe Whitney, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2019

I was following behind a girl in dark hair and pale skin. In full black, with a gun in one hand. She creeps, creeps down a dark alley way from Davidson street. She turns her head and I follow behind her, so she doesn’t notice my fluro work shirt and long blonde hair. She continues to fake mini steps and then I see someone walking towards her. A male figure, with a very no so brushed hair that spikes up at the top, and many pockets across a leather jacket that is also black. I hide between a gap and a restaurant on the other side of the street. They begin to speak Spanish. I know some Spanish, but I am not fluent.
‘lies’ …. ‘did she’ …. ‘don’t say’ …. ‘she’s behind’ …. ‘anybody else’….
I can’t quite pick up what they’re saying, I take off my fluro top and dump it between the door so they don’t notice me, so then I can slowly walk away. Then, they start speaking English. I duck down, trying to make as little sound as possible remembering that the lady has a gun. When I realise that they mentioned my name. Adelaide Anderson. When I make my way back towards where I came before and I listen in closely on their whispered voices, curious as to what they are doing talking about me in a dark alley way.
“Did she follow you?” Then I hear the lady hold out her gun when she locks and loads it. Then aiming it at the floor, checking that the bullets are in the gun. And that’s when I start running. After running for a while, I slow down to a walk, making sure I am checking behind me a couple of times to feel safe. Taking in everything that just happened. When I hear another 2 pairs of footsteps behind me, loud footsteps that seem as if they are on purposely making their steps loud. But I stay cautious. It may not be them, so I continue to walk, and I don’t turn around. I walk a little faster, stepping a little lighter every time. Beginning to run a few steps on the way, taking as many corners as possible trying to lose them. But they are still behind me. Their footsteps sound as if they are wearing heavy black boots, no wonder I could hear their footsteps so easily. But that gives me my signal to run, run and run until I can’t feel my legs, when then I hear Spanish again. Spanish, I don’t understand. And now, I can only hear my footsteps. Me and only me alone. In a dark corner with neon graffiti everywhere there is almost no wall to be seen, but I can tell there is a dark figure at the end of it. With just a shade of black off from being unseen able. I just turned down the wrong corner.