The gravel crumbling under my feet is imperceptible over the deafening beating of my heart. The flashing lights brighten the darkness of the street around me while the wailing sirens pierce through the silence of the evening. My pale lips coil into a smirk as I duck into the closest building. A cramped apartment complex surrounds me and I although I am unfamiliar to the surroundings the feeling I am so accustomed to does not leave me. Quickly, I sweep over the perimeter of the lowly excuse of a lobby and snag the nearest newspaper. Flipping through the seemingly infinite pages I find it. Exactly what I was looking for, I see a section for the FBI most wanted list. I recognize a tall looking man with ice-cold blue eyes that seem like they could kill a man by themselves. His black hair looked like he was a few weeks in need of a haircut and the shadows that it covered made him look more mysterious than his childish look revealed.

            “Well this photo isn’t really flattering is it?” I voiced, making sure to keep my voice down with the knowledge that the nearby cameras watched my every move.

            With careful hands, I snatched the newspaper from the doorstep and ducked into one of the nearby doors, using the thin key that dangled from my neck. The aged charcoal frame seemed to almost crumble to the slightest touch of my hand, a telltale sign of its age. As I opened the door, I scanned the room and saw two burly middle-aged men sat around a poker table with the dimly lit lights illuminating their sweaty, fatty faces. Around them, piles of empty takeout containers, cigar butts, and pizza boxes uncovered the amount of time they had been rotting here as the contents covered their damp wife beaters.

“Hey Keaton, we were wondering when you was going to show up!” one of the men howled, with a hearty laugh, getting up to embrace me in a powerful hug. I nearly gagged at the gruesome smell radiating off his body, yet I leaned into the familiar hug anyway.

“Carlos, this is no time for jokes.” I murmured, “you know what I did, you have to help me.” Through the embrace, I felt a thin cord that ran through the underside of his shirt. I furrowed my eyebrows and looked at my closest friend in the eyes.

“I’m sorry Myles, but you are beyond saving.”

            Carlos and his companion slowly backed away from me with their hands in the air, exposing the microphone taped under his collar as a furious knock shook the frail charcoal door.

“Open the door, FBI!” an unidentifiable voice barked through the door. It came crashing down with a thud along with myself as a sharp pain ran through my back and I knew this was it.

Part 2

Bright lights. Glaring Lights. All I could see was the blinding white of the room and the illumination that the florescent lights provided. I turned to the right and an intense ache brought me back down to my position against the metal table. A strangely placed mirror against the wall confirmed my assumptions. I had been caught and everything I had worked for had gone to nothing. My leather jacket had been exchanged for a sky blue robe that barely rose past my thigh. Suddenly, a balding man strutted through the door, holding a small black briefcase; he wore a tan suit and incredibly polished shoes.

            “Hello Myles Keaton, we have been looking for you for a long time.” He voiced cockily. I kept my lips sewn waiting for him to speak his next question

“We know that you have been an accomplice to the following crimes. You are going to be charged for first degree murder, avoiding arrest, disrespecting an officer, speeding…” He continued droning about the things that I knew I had done but I refused to admit it to myself.

            “What do you know about me?” I questioned the detective.  “You don’t know shit about me or anything I have done.” I squinted my eyes at the detective and I could see the small amount of fear clouding his vision, him knowing the only thing standing between him and me was a thin pair of handcuffs.

            “Murder is no joke Mr. Keaton, you should know.” He said with a smirk.

Her breathing was slow, and unsteady. Her face was a canvas, painted with blue, and purple, and green and yellow. If her ocean eyes had not been swollen shut, she may have been able to see her brother trying to rescue her, before a gun was placed to her thin, fragile skin, and the canvas ripped. As my eyes fixated on the man who had done the deed, I leaped at him with my pocketknife in hand, trying to avenge the only family I had left.

            Raindrops dripped from the corners of my eyes and my heart wrenched with sorrow. My life living free was stolen, and by what?