Followed to Fear

"Ember, to your left!" I heard a shout from behind me, and threw myself to the right, onto the tile floor, crashing into a couple frightened co-workers on my way down. As I fell, someone stepped on my sandaled foot. The pain was sharp; they were not a slim person. A crash followed by a scream and a sickly smell sounded from five meters across the lobby. Gunpowder.

My old cubicle. My college dorm. His clothes. Him. Everywhere. Why here too?

A fear grew at the back of my mind. Memories. Realization. Recognition.

It's not possible, I told myself. I'm a lier.

I struggled to my feet, struggled very much in the thick crowd pushing for the door. I accedentally grabbed someone's elbow. It must have been their reflexes that hit me in the jaw. Solidly on me feet, along with the mob of my colleagues, I too pushed for the door. Weaving between people, I finally laid hands on the sweaty door handle when excruciatingly sharp pain shot through my lower back on the left side. I crumpled to the floor, and was trampled by the crowd that rushed even more to the doors.

Through the pain and people, I turned over to look behind me. Five seconds later, the lobby was empty. Empty of workers. One man remained, standing with his weapon in the middle of the room, his face unfamilliar to me in all ways. I dragged myself a foot closer, then had to stop because of the pain. The man placed both of his hands on the sides of his face, and pushed outwards. He pulled the mask off of his face and cast it to the floor. The cold, icy, unfeeling eyes that were trained on me were the initiator of every childhood nightmare I had. My heart race quickened with dread, my lower back pulsating with pain at every beat.

"Father?" I choked. The last sound I heard was a gunshot. Then the world went black. The room smelled of gunpowder.