six

Three months after the accident, I received a letter in the mail saying that I needed to report to the police station. The letter assured me that my report was nothing formal, that I just need to give my account of what happened; apparently someone from another town was suing the bus company and they needed my account of the accident as some sort of evidence in their case. I didn’t want to visit the station. I don’t like police. 


With my mom’s advice ringing in my ears, I decide I have no choice but to go. “It’s always a good idea to cooperate with the police,” her voice echoed in an almost sing-songy tone. 


I left the apartment at 6:22 pm. For whatever reason, I decided to skate to the station. The station is only a two-minute walk from my house, but I want to head over to the rink afterwards. I know I’ll look stupid showing up to the police station in skates, but I don’t really care.

Although three months have passed, I’m still a little paranoid about buses and busy streets, so I cross the the street with caution. It’s 6:24 by the time I finally cross the street, I made sure to wait until it was absolutely safe for me to cross before effortlessly gliding across the pavement. Although I have another six minutes before I’m supposed to testify, I take a shortcut through the alley between the burnt down Forever 21 and the shoe store. “Stay on their good side,” I remind myself. I don’t want to be late.

It doesn’t take more than ten seconds into my alleyway shortcut, that I begin to regret my decision. The ally is covered in black soot and ashes from the fire, giving the alley a mysterious and sketchy vibe.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a small bonfire and tipped over crates, but no people. I find myself wondering how something so sketchy is able to survive in such close proximity to the police station.

I start to turn around, but it’s too late. I feel a sharp pain in the back of my knees and crumble to the ground.