Running through the streets, abandoned, was something I had never imagined myself doing in my mind’s eye. But here I was, heart pounding in my chest, sweat pouring down my face, and blood mixing with it. The steady rhythm of my feet was echoed by the equal rhythm of my attacker’s footsteps. I knew I had to keep moving, keep running, or I would end up like Melissa: dead.

I turned a corner and saw a dead end in the street. My heart sank as I realized my fate was sealed. I could hear my attacker getting closer, his breath hot on my neck. I turned around to face him, but it was too late. He grabbed me, threw me on the ground, and took his time in creating pain for me.

The first blow was like a thunderclap, ringing in my ears. The second was like a gunshot, echoing through the empty streets. I screamed in agony as he continued to beat me, each blow feeling like a sledgehammer to my body. The pain was unbearable, like a thousand knives stabbing me all at once.

I tried to fight back, but it was no use. He was too strong, too fast. I was helpless, at his mercy. He laughed as he continued to pummel me, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of pleasure.

I felt like a rag doll, tossed around by a child. My body was broken, my spirit shattered. I knew I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.

As he raised his fist for the final blow, I closed my eyes and waited for the end. But it never came. I heard a sound, like a gunshot, and then everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. My body was covered in bandages, and I could barely move. But I was alive. I had survived.

As I lay there, I realized that running through the streets, abandoned, had been the best decision I had ever made. It had saved my life. And I knew that I would never take my safety for granted again.