1A/N: There's a hidden meaning within this story. Do you think you can guess what it is? There are no wrong answers.
As if written in stone, something no one can change, a shot rang through Main Avenue just as Diana was about to cross the street, and missed her by about an inch, but instead hit Peter, a lonely boy of six.
The murder curses, his target missed, the person supposed to die, mistaken for someone shockingly like his supposed-to-be-victim, and with that mistake behind him he runs before anyone sees him.
Diana runs towards the boy and stares at the poor body lying by the upside down bike, the wheel still spinning. She cries for help but no one hears, so she snaps open her cell phone and calls 911. She hopes it isn't too late, the wound, she sees, is somewhere near his chest.
Pant,pant,pant,pant. The murder hopes no one saw who'd pulled the trigger. It wasn't the first time he'd run away from the scene of a crime, and he hopes it won't be the last.
Gasping from his bad lungs due to smoking 2 packs of cigarettes a day, he comes to a stop, his breath comes out in small gasps, he grabs his knees for support. Well, he thinks, that wasn't so bad.
Diana never liked hospitals. Never will. She leans beside the child and recalls the last two hours. The doctors had frantically carried the boy on a stretcher and into the emergency room. Then there needed to be surgery in order to remove the bullet, lucky for the child, it hadn't been a fatal wound.
She searches through her mind and smiles grimly.
Diana doesn't even know the child's name.
The drug store always had his favorite brand of cigars, plus they were cheap. He rings the bell impatiently and glares at the skinny boy who gulps as he takes a good look at his customer.
"What are you looking at?" The murder's tone is husky with the intention of scaring the skinny boy.
The boy, who the murder sees is named Tom, gulps again, before mumbling, "Nothing." The murder smiles, pays for his cigars, and replies, "Good," before walking out the door.
The boys stares at the closing door and hopes the man dies of lung cancer.
Diana inhales fresh air. Good thing she's out of that hospital. It'd smelled like medicine and old people, although she's saddened by the fact that she couldn't have said goodbye to the little boy. His parents had been informed of the accident. They'd thanked Diana for what seemed like ages, until finally, she said she had to leave.
Lies.
She walks with haste. It's not like she needs to be anywhere, but after that incident, she might as well hurry home, sometimes there were no second chances.
One moment she's looking behind her back (paranoia is not something she wants to deal with too), and the next she's on the ground. She's startled by the menacing face looking right at her, an aging man in his forty's, with a foul cigarette odor, is glaring at her, his eyes bloodshot.
Damn is all the murder can say.
It's that look-alike. He looks at her in disgust and snarls, "Get outta people's way! Don't you know lives are at stake here?" With that he stands up and leaves the stunned girl sitting on the ground.
Well, Diana thinks, that was odd. She stands up and brushes herself off, and walks, with even greater haste, back to her apartment.
She knows she needs to get out of this neighborhood.