Yell for help

"He's over here! Hey, he's over here!" you shout at the top of your lungs. "Help! Help, he's over here!"

"Stupid," the voice hisses, and shoves you, hard. You stumble and fall, landing in a tangle of blackberry vines. You keep shouting as you struggle to get up, the blackberry thorns tearing at your skin.

The cops finally hear you and rush over, weapons drawn. You put your hands over your head and let them pat you down as you describe your encounter. "I think he had a gun," you conclude. "He said he did, but I never saw it."

There's brief talk about taking you in for questioning, but finally the ranking officer decides to let you go and orders one of the others to take you home. You sit in the back and hope to god this is the last time you ever find yourself in the back of a police cruiser. The cop drops you off in front of Aunt Margie's house and advises you to stay inside and keep the doors and windows locked until they catch the guy.

You head inside, then remember that you left out the back. You walk around the fence and through the back gate. Once inside, you shut and lock the sliding glass door. The silent house seems to press in on you, the darkness threatening to swallow you as you realize how close you just came to dying. He could have shot you. The police could have shot you, if they thought you were the bad guy. You turn on the kitchen light and sink down onto one of the wooden kitchen chairs, cradling your head in your hands.

A dark spot on the floor catches your eye. It looks like a drop of blood. You reach out and touch the tip of one finger to the drop. It's fresh, and definitely blood. You check the scratches on your arms and legs, but none of them are deep enough to bleed.