Page 2 of God of War

My scream freezes in my throat. My heart is squeezed so tight I think it might pop out of my chest if I even try to move.

A man. A man has his hand on my shoulder. I can’t see his face, not really. But that’s because I’m trying to figure out his shirt — it has pictures on it, blobs of dark color that don’t make sense, that seem to shift with his every breath.

Oh.

It’s his skin. He has tattoos, like Nancy’s dad. And Nancy’s dad is mean.

What if this man is as mean as Nancy’s dad? What if he’s worse?

The terrible thought loosens the scream in my throat and I let it out. Only it comes out more like a strangled squeak. I force my feet to move and my whole body lurches back. For a second, I don’t think he’s going to let me go, but then he does and I stumble back, landing on my butt in a pool of light.

The man doesn’t move, lurking in the shadow of the house. And then he steps toward me.

“Don’t,” I whimper.

He freezes. Like he just got paralyzed too.

Whatever happened, whatever I did to make him stop, I take it. I scramble to my feet, dirt catching under my nails, and then I’m off and running — not past him, but through the backyard and around the other side of the house.

I burst into the front yard and sprint across the street, not looking back until I make it to my house. Once I’m there, I dare a glance over my shoulder, just to make sure he’s not following me.

He’s not.

But he is watching.

In the old lady’s front yard, the man stands beneath the streetlight. He’s barefoot, wearing only a pair of jeans. I see his face now, without the gloom of the shadow, and my steps falter.

He’s younger than I thought. Not like Nancy’s dad at all. But that’s all I give myself time to notice before I skid around the corner of my house and haul myself back through my bedroom window.

My heart doesn’t slow down until my window is locked and I’ve dragged my comforter into my closet, closing the door behind me.

2

Delaney

Eleven Years Old

The bus drops me off at the end of the street. Nancy waves to me out the window and I wave back before I shrug on my backpack and turn to walk home. The old lady’s house is about halfway down the block and I could avoid it, walk back down the bus route and take the long way home.

But even though my gut twists at the thought of passing that house, I know I have to do it. I have to see if he’s real, or if I was just imagining him. Dreaming him. Like a nightmare.

My shoulder twinges.

That’s stupid. I know the difference between real and imagined, and the hand-shaped mark on my shoulder is definitely real. It still feels hot to the touch, more like a burn than a bruise.

He’s dangerous, I tell myself as my feet start towards home. He probably did something to the old lady. He was probably going to do the same thing to me.

I keep my eyes down, focusing on my sneakers as they slap against the pavement. I hear something up ahead — the loud clanking noise of metal on metal — and I already know it’s coming from the old lady’s house.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

The noise stops.

“Hey.”

I keep walking.

“Hey, kid!”

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