"It takes two to make a murder. There are born victims, born to have their throats cut, as the cut-throats are born to be hanged."

-Aldous Huxley

What's his name again?

Every corner I turn makes this giant city look smaller and smaller. The walls of the alleys, of the buildings, are going to suffocate me. No matter how diminutive everything is becoming, I can't stop running. It is not an option to cease the momentum of my exasperated legs, enlarging the distance between me and him. Why am I running? Because he has a knife, because he has my blood smeared on his shirt, on his face, on his knife. Another right turns into yet another dead end. I change directions and am met by the patter of a new set of footsteps. Not my footsteps on this dank, gravely pavement, his footsteps.

I can't remember his name.

Not knowing which streets he is taking, I continue to run. Sweat drips from my face; my heart is beating too fast. Loose gravel coating my next turn, I collide onto the filthy ground. My blood paints the dirt from where he cut me. Grime and bacteria scrapes into my stomach where he sliced me wide open. Who punctured my stomach? The man with the crazy eyes and angry face. I wish I could remember his name. I pick myself back up and don't waste any time in beginning my descent again. Now, I hear his panting breaths. He's getting closer. The man full of fury screams my name and my heart leaps into my throat. Tonight's drizzling and dark air doesn't help. Only dim street lights illuminate a fraction of the streets I flee to run down.

Why can't I remember his name?

For the hundredth time I scream, but no one answers. Does anyone notice? Does anyone care that I have been stabbed and am on the verge of death? Not tonight, not here. There is one person who recognizes me; he recognizes my dire plight. Footsteps pounding harder, breathing heard louder, he's catching up. One more time in this cliché scene, I trip into a puddle as warm and as thick as my own blood. His footsteps come slower, his breathing grows stronger. As I look into the puddle my hands are shoved in, I see a glistening reflection. While coughing on blood, while trying not to pass out from so much blood loss, I turn around. He sees me and I look back at him.

His name starts with an M.

The sight of my own struggling life makes his eyes glow. The moon's hollow stare creates a glare from his red stained knife. I attempt to stand back up, but exhaustion pushes me back down. My hair is drenched in the city's filthy water and my innocent blood. The man doesn't approach at first, he just stares. I look back up to him and remember. I remember his name. He closes the distance between us and thrusts me up. Pushing me against the wall, I desperately scream for salvation one last time. My plea for help produces a grim, sick smile on his face. He laughs hysterically as the knife is forced into my abdomen again and again. Yes, that's his name; how could I forget? Cradling my stomach, trying to stop this horrendous flow of crimson red blood, my knees give way and I topple to the pavement. Looking up into his crazy, satisfied eyes, I breathe my last dying breath.

His name is Murder.