OLAMIDE
I huddled in a dumpster surrounded by a crusty rotten smell and shaken with fear. , her breath coming in quiet. As the sound of heavy boots thudded platters of water, I desperately held my breath.
Lord, Please... I begged my mother's God and prayed he would keep moving. He had to keep moving. Tears slid profusely down my cheeks as I pondered on what he would do to me if he found me. This was never how I planned to go. My heart thudded loudly just thinking of what the headline of news would be on my story. I hated myself. But what could that do? I should never have come here. If only I had almost stayed home, snuggled in bed with Zeus, and watched those sappy hallmark movies, with a bowl of popcorn in my arms. But it was too pathetic for a Friday night—especially so close to Valentine's day. The general holiday depression had already started to set in, with everyone around me being all loved up reminding me painfully that I was alone and it was only the first week of February. Grudgingly I had gotten dressed and went wild with some girlfriends at a club. But the others had wanted to party later than I wanted to. So I left alone. It was just a few blocks to the subway station. It was dangerous to walk alone at night. Especially with an outfit so revealing but I comforted myself with the knowledge that I had pepper spray tucked away in my purse—the same spray the killer was now in possession of.
I closed my eyes, trying desperately to shut out the sight of the man choking on his own blood as his throat was slit, The image of a man—wolf throwing the lifeless body into the rails. I vividly remembered his blood red irises when he heard me scream in fear. I lacked the brazen front to even pick the spray from. my bag. I doubted it would work because whatever I saw was not human. I had dropped my purse and fled for my dear life but something told me it was not enough. He was following me and with the way the night was going I might end up just like the man, another corpse if his body was found.
The footsteps suddenly stopped and I dared to peep but he wasn't within sight. I could still hear this heavy breath. It was all over the place but it implied he was dangerously close. My stomach twisted just knowing I was right. As if the cruel truth wasn't enough, the scent of rich cologne hit my nostrils, drowning out the smell of rotting food and crusty condoms. His breath sounded as if it were blowing right in her ear. I had to state the obvious. He was a professional, not some random street tough. Poor, desperate people didn't bother with cologne. And if they did, it wouldn't have been such an expensive brand. Something told me I had gotten myself into a dilemma much bigger than me and I almost felt the need to sob like a child. I bit back a loud sob until it rattled around and echoed so loud in my mind that I feared he'd hear it. There was a snick of a lighter and then cigarette smoke filled the air. It was as if he was trying to smoke me out, as if he knew I could not stand the stench. He took drag after drag as I watched the faint ember burn bright and die through the cracks of my metal confines.
He was toying with me
I heard the pull of a zipper, and for one sick moment thought it was his pants, but the sound that followed was the snap of a wallet being opened. My wallet!
"Olamide Armstrong." He said with a rich English accent stupidly reminding me of how everyone I met murdered my name at their first tries. Even my would—be murderer. "... 580 Maple Avenue. Mech." His voice was relaxed, casual, because murder was casual to him.
I didn't want to stereotype, but a nicely dressed Englishman with murder tendencies required no leaps of logic. This guy was a man of the underworld. It was written all over him. Letting go of the purse had been necessary to save me, but now he knew who I was and where I lived. For a moment I continued to pretend he didn't know I was in the dumpster. I tried to think about where she could run, how I could stay safe from someone who would no doubt relentlessly pursue the only witness to his crime.
"Pretty. You are black though. Too bad."
Not only was he a murderer, but he was also racist. A part of me told me my color might have saved me from being a trafficked bimbo but it did not matter. In minutes, my life would not be my own regardless of how the situation played at. I figured the best option was to make a run for it while screaming at the top of my lungs for help. If only I had the doggedness to even move.
He let out a heavy sigh. "All right, come out. If you make me come get you, I will make sure you beg me to kill you."
That was it! I had held it together for as long as I could, been quiet as long as she could manage.
"Please, just let me go," I begged, shivering, and mentally praying for any omnipotent being to come to my aid. But alas, the truth was bitter and the mister stalking me dropped it without emotion.
