I met death last night

I met death last night.

Being alone in one of London’s many streets, I was already cold, but his presence behind me was more than that.

It was ice—sharp, hard ice that seared through my flesh, travelled through my blood, urging goosebumps to shoot out of my skin.

When I turned down the lonely alley, I regretted it instantly. It was said that he lingered in dark streets, waiting for a desperate soul to pass him by.

But still, I had decided to keep going.

Arriving in London on the night of my sister's birthday was already fine, but her party had begun at 8 p.m., and I didn’t need to look at my watch to know that it was way past that already. She would kill me for being late. So, so late.

But that wasn’t the only reason I dared not turn back.

It had been too long since I’d last walked these streets. Since I’d last felt the heavy air of London pressing down on me, clogging my lungs with soot and smoke. Life on the road had made me lighter, more restless, but coming back here was like stepping into a grave. The city had a way of sinking its teeth into you, of making you forget where you’d been. And why you’d left.

Fearing death was childish. My parents had told me as such when I refused to go on one of the rides at the Festival Extravaganza, during our trip to America. But this was different. Like the images in my mind of falling from great heights and being trampled by horses had cleared, revealing something so impossible that it was the only thing my mind deemed plausible.

He was behind me.

I did not turn around. I did not blink. My eyes remained open, forgetting how dry they had become. I just stood there, an invisible force stopping my feet from taking off into a run. From sprinting around corners and through streets until he would inevitably catch me.

I wondered what it would feel like. A sudden pain in my chest? A fog corrupting my mind? My vision slowly dimmed until I drifted off into a never-ending dreamless sleep. Or maybe, I would feel nothing. Maybe I would be awake one second, thinking of all the ways I was going to die, and the next I would be lying on the ground, waiting for someone to find me, although by then it would be too late.

No one could ever be saved.

The goosebumps grew larger as his presence sauntered towards me, like prey waiting for the predator, knowing that it was neither fast enough nor strong enough to face it. I thought about all those moments I had let slip through my fingers, all those opportunities I had missed out on, all those potential friends and more that I had hung back from, thinking that I wasn’t worth their time. Now, I thought that I should have chosen who was worth my time, for it was going to be shorter than anyone would have expected.

And who would have blamed them for thinking I had all the time in the world? I always thought, never did. Always calculated, never acted. Always worried about others, and never spared a thought for myself.

Now, just like then, I waited.

He was as silent as the night. The once-cawing crows and hissing cats were already in mourning. He stood right behind me, dark as a shadow, his breath a gentle breeze against my neck. The single word spoken in a voice rich in charm, alluring me to turn around. To face the predator.

But I did not turn around. Still, I did not blink. The feeling in my fingers came back and I was met with the warmth of coming out of an ice bath, into the blazing sun. My feet began to move, the invisible force gone like it was never there, and soon I was running. Running through winding streets, trying to think of anything but what had just happened.

I’m late, I thought. I’m so, so late and my sister will be mad. I tried to convince myself that was why I was running. Nothing happened. I saw nothing.

My breath tore through the night’s air as my book struck the slick cobblestones. Gas lamps fought against the choking fog, blinding me. The stray hairs that I had forgotten to shave on my arms stood up as ice invaded my lungs once more.

No.

Please no.

I had heard people talk about terror whipping through them, causing them to panic and shake. But that was a lie. Terror didn’t come all at once. It came in waves, each one bigger than the last, freezing my lungs and clenching my throat in a vice-like grip.

Why did I think that I could outrun him?

Why did I think I could outrun the inevitable?

I looked down at my pale skirts, now splattered in mud, and refused to look up again. The shock of what I might see would kill me before he did. He made no sound as he approached for the second time. No footsteps. No shift of breath or fabric. Just the sudden, certain sense of him, standing before me. Close. Too close.

My eyes stayed down. I could feel him watching me, the weight of his gaze pressing against my skin like the brush of fingertips. My breath hitched. My fingers curled into the folds of my dress. He said nothing. He did nothing. Just stood there, silent and motionless.

The seconds stretched and broke. My pulse thudded in my throat like the fear in my stomach, mixing with something warmer, darker beneath my ribs. I imagined what his eyes must’ve been like. Dark. Unblinking. Tracing the line of my collarbone and the curve of my mouth.

Then, just as quietly as he had come, he left for the second time in a single hour. Slowly, cautiously, I dared to lift my head.

The street was empty again, mist curling through the dim light. I waited for what might have been seconds, or minutes, I didn’t know, but I managed to walk again. But I didn’t run. I no longer cared that I was late.

Finally, I reached it: a tall, iron gate, its surface slick with rain that I hadn’t realised was falling. A footman in a crisp coat stood at attention beneath a gaslight’s feeble glow, his face blank under the brim of his hat. His eyes sharpened when he saw me. Without a word, he pushed the gate open, allowing me to slip through.

The moment the gate clicked shut behind me, the street’s grim chill seemed to dissolve. A long, white, gravel path wound through manicured gardens lit by golden candles and strung by iron posts. Tall windows loomed over me as music floated through the air. As soon as I made it into the house, I passed the polished wood and gilded mirrors, up the stairs to the spare bedroom where I flopped onto the well-made bed, ignoring the state of my clothes.

Did I feel bad for leaving my sister on her birthday? Of course. But I just couldn’t cope. With anyone or anything. I didn’t think I could even fall asleep, no matter how much my body craved it.

I had spent so long moving from place to place, never staying long enough to leave a mark, never bothering to make ties. I told myself it was because I liked the freedom — the open road, the thrill of waking up in a new city with new faces. But the truth was simpler. It was easier not to care when you knew you wouldn’t stay long enough to lose anything.

I met death last night.

And I lived.