I could feel the blood pumping through my arteries, my legs felt as if they would shatter if I dare take another step, but I knew I needed to survive. The pain only increased as I felt breathing on my neck, telling me I was about to die. Maybe I was right. Then, I tripped. I braced myself for the inevitable. I looked up into the cold, shattered soul that lies beneath the one I used to call friend.

I moved to New York City twelve years ago when my parents died. They judge told me that my closest relative shall have custody of me. My uncle, Darius, had been my father's only brother, and my mother had no living siblings. An officer escorted me to my home to pack, and I was on the next flight to the Big Apple.

Uncle Darius didn't want me to feel alone, so he arranged for me to meet his friend's son, Jackson. We started hanging out more often, and eventually became best friends. One tragic day, his father, Stephen, was murdered. During an autopsy, the doctor found large letters "M" and "I" carved into his stomach. Jackson's mother went insane when she read the report. She kept a diary as she tried to find her husband's killer. Three months later, she, too, was found dead, letters "C" and "H" carved into her stomach as well.

"MICH," repeated Jackson, "what could it mean." "Maybe the killer is trying to spell his name," I replied, not realizing the train of thought I had just started within my friend. "Or maybe he's trying to spell your name, Michael," he accused. "Why would he want to spell my name?" I shot back at him.

It was very awkward afterwards as Jackson moved in with Uncle Darius and I. He was still my friend, even if he suspected me of the murder of his parents. After about a year, we started growing closer, gaining each other's trust once again. He took me to meet his girlfriend, Sally, and her friend, Jessica. I instantly fell in love. After a few months of happiness and peace, terror struck once more.

Jackson hadn't heard from Sally in a few days, and began to worry. I accompanied him to her house, where her and her mother lay dead on the floor, her mother's stomach reading, "AE," and hers reading, "L." Jackson stared in disbelief. Grief-stricken, he grabbed a knife and lunged at me. I ran out the open door.

As I lay there on the ground, staring into Jackson's eyes, mine closed. I prepared for the painful death that awaited me. Suddenly, I heard a gunshot ring out from behind me. I slowly opened my eyes, wondering why I wasn't in pain, or how Jackson got a gun. I caught sight of him, laying face down on the ground in front of me, in a puddle of his own blood. I looked behind me, relieved to see a familiar face, Uncle Darius.

"Thank you so much, Uncle Darius," I called out to him, standing up to run into his arms. I looked up into his eyes, as he just stared coldly back into mine. "Don't thank me so soon, Michael," he said so quietly into my ear. Another gunshot rang out, and all went black.