This is the 2nd post of the monthly ‘what if’ game.
Rules are simple: All you have to do is read the below scenario, then imagine it is YOURSELF in there and leave a comment detailing what YOU would do. Not written as a character. But written as yourself.
Here’s your scenario:
Seven pm has arrived. Time for your jog. Seven pm jogging is a ritual of yours (if you’re like me and only jog when desperate for the loo, then just pretend you like to jog). You have your MP3 in your sweatpants pocket, your earbuds tucked into your lugholes, and your hair swept back into a tight ponytail (unless you’re bald). Door’s locked on your way out the house, a couple stretches on the front path that you know the old dude living across the way gets a kick out of spying on, and you’re off.
Less than 100 yards brings you to the park perimeter and you duck through a break in the hedgerow. The burn has already laid claim to your thighs. Your breaths have surpassed the pants of initial exertion and moved into the realm of shallow and regulated. And ACDC is blasting a tune into your ears.
After the soft padding of grass, the path sends jolts through your calves as you pummel the asphalt. One step … breathe … two step … breathe … three step … breathe … four—those tiny hairs smothering the nape of your neck snap upright like an army of downy soldiers.
Your pace falters. You spin around, jog backward, scanning the shadows of the trees to the left of the walkway. Though your vision conjures no images, you just know someone is there.
You whirl back onto your path—but not before knocking the volume right down on Fall Out Boy, now playing—and the rest of the straight stretch is covered with a tilt of your head.
The moment the footsteps fall into pattern to your rear, you capture them. Without intention, your speed picks up.
Boom-boom, boom-boom, the beat of your feet rapidly chased by the pursuing ones gives the impression of a heartbeat not quite sure of its rhythm, the duet growing closer together, the merging leaving you questioning if you’d even heard a second set at all … until the line of lamplight casts the shadow alongside your own.
Without a doubt: you are not alone.
Moronically, you weave a left through the bushes—despite knowing only a far stretch of trees lie that way (because the heroine NEVER acts rationally or responsibly in the movies, right?), and before you know it, twigs are scratching your cheeks as well as threatening to twist your damn ankles as they hang low from above and create a knobbly route beneath your soles.
Your breaths pant from you, their passage burning your chest. Sweat provides a chill across your brow as it connects with the night air to contrast against the heat of panic soaring through your body.
You erupt into a clearing.
Ahead is a man.
You skid to a halt, your squeaked cry penetrating the whump of your coursing blood. As you pivot to kick dust, the the first guy who shepherded you to the clearing stomps to a standstill on your other side.
His face twists in what appears to be temper … but not at you—his blackening eyes are directed only at the new arrival as fangs as long and sharp as leather-work needles shoot down from his gums.
At a deep rumbling to your rear, you whip round again—only to discover the thunderous racket is rolling from the throat of the other dude as he leans forward and bares his shiny straight gnashers.
“Come with me if you want to live,” says Mr pointy-tooth, as Mr Growler snarls out, “Get behind me now!”
So … what do you do? Who are you gonna trust?
Feel free to join in and create your own ‘what-if’s. Simply use the hashtag for posting to Twitter.
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