Content Warning: This story includes references to trauma, abuse, physical violence, and death. While not graphically described, this may be emotionally distressing. Reader discretion is advised.
👉Need to catch up? Read Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Fragmented words broke through. Then nothing.
Smith floated. Waves rolled over him
A rushing sound. Something pricked his mind.
A sense of falling in a sea of red. Wait.
Slow climb through layers.
Someone talking near him. The words didn’t make sense.
He tried for the surface.
Something holding his thoughts down. Underwater.
He let it go. Drifted.
Sentences started coming into focus.
“Found him next to her body” and then—
“Anonymous source” bled through.
Confusion… Oh.
So… the girl was dead?
Someone must have called it in.
Why hadn’t they helped?
Fear gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Smith’s head finally cleared. Fear morphed into dread.
Squelch. A radio barked, “Saw him fighting with her, going for her purse.”
Smith listened intently. Mouth suddenly dry.
A voice near him responded.
“Name’s Smith—S-M-I-T-H.”
Smith’s heart raced, the sound filling his ears.
A pause. The radio squawked back:
“Nothing but trouble, should see his file.”
Shit. He was the suspect they were talking about.
Sweaty and cold at once, his mind found another gear.
He could now see the swim of blues-and-reds between his closed lids. All too real.
He was going down for murder. A stone settled deep in his stomach, the taste of bile on his tongue.
Cracking his eyes a little wider, he took in his position: laying across the back seat of a police cruiser, with his wrists handcuffed in the front.
He was so broad of shoulder, they couldn’t get them linked behind his back without extra cuffs.
Only one officer on scene…
Pushing with his foot to scoot himself upright, he felt the door give slightly.
It hadn’t latched.
A miracle.
His mind raced.
Fishing around in his front jeans pocket, he prayed the cop hadn’t done a complete search on him.
Fate rewarded him as his fingers locked around a small pick.
He silently went to work on the cuffs, slipping them with ease.
Looking through the rear window, he saw the officer about ten feet away.
Bent over the girl. Talking on his radio. Facing away.
Distracted.
Easing out of the cruiser silently, Smith made for the shadows behind it at the edge of the lot.
Walking heel-to-toe, he moved fast.
He had to leave the scene before more officers arrived.
Beyond the lot, he cut down an alleyway. Once out of earshot, he began running while hugging shadows.
A face peered through a parted curtain. As he passed, the curtain dropped back into place. Deeper darkness descended as a lamp was shuttered.
Moments later, he heard yelling, more distant with each step he took.
After a few minutes, the sounds of multiple sirens came from different directions.
Speed now more important than stealth, he hit a dead sprint. Weaving through back alleyways, he steered clear of the road.
The sounds of sirens zigzagging from different directions spurred him on. He ignored the stitch in his side, pushing ever faster.
At last, he came to a warehouse that looked closed for the night, with only a single light on in front.
He knelt by a bush and listened, eyes scanning in every direction.
No movement.
The surrounding area was quiet. Almost eerie.
He crept around to the back and picked the simple lock on the door to gain entry.
Outside, he could still hear sounds of the police chase.
The sirens were distant.
He moved like a shadow through the stacks of crates and shelves until he found a place to crouch in the darkness.
Time to think.
His mind in turmoil, he realized he’d been set up. It was too coincidental to have seen Stringer.
They’d had bad blood for over a decade. All because Smith wouldn’t join his gang.
When Stringer and his cronies had come for him, Smith had beat him down to prove that point.
What a fucking tool.
So what? Kill a girl just to steal his freedom? Definitely sounded like Stringer.
Smith felt his fury mounting. He’d done things for survival, though the law hadn’t seen it that way.
He wasn’t proud of the things he’d done out of desperation. No one understood the hard choices you have to make living on the street.
Outcast. Ostracized. Other.
This time would be no different, except that he was innocent. He couldn’t prove it, and he knew it.
Felon. Failure. Fucked.
They would “prove” his guilt through his past actions and associations. No push to know the truth with an ex-con there to tie it up neatly.
Practically gift-wrapped.
“Did you know recidivism is at 90% now? That’s where you commit more crimes.”
His case manager’s nasally voice taunted in his head. Clipboard. Smirk. Shaking her head.
Her judgmental expression a part of her uniform. She was going to love this.
Not as long as I can help it, he thought. He would try to stay free as long as he could.
He knew that once he was on the wrong side of those bars, he’d never get out again. Or he’d be so old, it wouldn’t even matter.
He’d take what life he could, with the time he had. It was all he was going to get.
So much for finding his family. Too many years lost. Too late.
He really wished that cat was sitting next to him. That would at least feel like living.
After a while, he crept around the warehouse. Ensured he was truly alone, the place secure.
Finding some canned goods, his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since his last meal in prison, early that morning.
Letting go of guilt in the presence of need, he grabbed a can of peaches and a can of beef stew.
As he slowly chewed, the sound of sirens faded.
His thoughts began to drift.
He was startled awake to a sound from nearby outside. He heard a car door slam and a man having a low, one-sided conversation with himself.
Quietly moving to the back of the warehouse, Smith listened for the sound of the man’s keys in the front door. He slid out the way he came in, making no sound.
It was just before dawn.
The streetlights were still on, guarding against the darkness.
As the sky began lightening, he noticed a cornfield adjacent to the warehouse.
Scanning carefully, he saw no sign of movement.
The pre-dawn stillness shrouded the sleepy town in silence.
Smith made his way to the field and disappeared from view.
He wandered through the stalks. Listening intently. Pondering his next move.
He heard a train whistle blow not too far away.
He felt as if Lady Luck had kissed his cheek.
He made his way to the tracks, moving in shadow.
The train was coming in fast, and he began to run in preparation.
He leapt for the handle and made the jump clean.
A quick glance in the car told him he was alone.
He crouched by the door, peering out.
He spied the same yellow Impala from the night before, partially obscured by vegetation.
Smith straightened from his crouch. His eyes narrowed.
Fate whispered in his ear.
He could stay on the train. Leave the area.
Free.
Or he could go after Stringer.
His hands curled into fists.
His tracks led in only one direction.
Stay tuned for Chapter 3
Author’s Note:
Originally submitted to the Reedsy Prompt Contest #303, written in response to the line: “I didn’t have a choice”.
It’s grown well beyond that seed, and I’m grateful you’re here walking these tracks with me.
Thanks for reading — Liora 💜
👉 If you like this, check out my newly published poetry chapbook,
Through the Fire, Volume I: The Pressure
12 poems that explore themes of targeting, misogyny, burnout, and systemic frustration.
No punches pulled.
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