The Witness

A Story by Becca

Should I make this into a story, or leave it the way it is? Leave me your opinion!

“I am a witness.”
The simple phrase turned my blood cold. Horror-stricken, I tried to moisten my dry lips. “Wh… what?”
“I am a witness,” repeated Angela, staring at me blankly. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if searching for a way out of this conversation.
Now I started to understand. The mysterious phone call late at night. The demand that I come alone, to the creepiest part of town, to the nightmare house that every child is double-dog-dared to enter.
She had to kill me.
Not that she wanted to, or even that it was something I’d done. It was something she’d done.
She had watched the murder of Louis Carlile.

I stepped away as she advanced, and bumped into a table. Metal screamed through the air and buried itself in my shadow. Surprise registered on Angela’s face, then morphed into a sneer. Tossing the knife into the air, she casually circled the room, looking for me. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
I scrunched down in the shadows, praying and thinking quickly. If she had really been caught and branded a witness, then she’d been instructed to kill me here.
If I wasn’t here, she couldn’t kill me.

The clatter of a wooden chair as it it the floor reminded me that I didn’t have a lot of time. In a moment of sheer idiocy, I stood up and raised my hands. “Here I am!”
The knife flew again.
This time I felt a searing pain shoot through my shoulder. Biting back a cry, I focused all my energy towards the door. I hit it at full speed.
It didn’t move.
Behind me, Angela barked a laugh. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” she asked, stalking towards me, a second blade gleaming in her hand
Last chance, warned my mind.
Without another word, I ripped the knife from my shoulder and plunged it into her chest.