I had to run. I didn’t care if my breaths became ragged and heavier with each torturous step, or if every part of my body ached and begged me to stop. I raced so fast that the forest encasing me all became a massive blur. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I didn’t bother to wash off the blood that stained my face, hands, and clothes; it was the stench of blood branded me a murderer. It was an accident, it was an accident, I kept repeating to myself until I was convinced it was true.

Slowing down, I panted and surveyed the area. Trees trapped me on all sides. Every demented branch hovered above like an arm waiting to ambush me. The dead leaves beneath my feet crunched. Far above, I could see the moon, clear and bright, stalking me like a watchful eye.

“I know you did it,” a voice accused. I whipped my head around to find an unfamiliar face pointing at me with a melancholy look. “Why did you kill him? Why?”

“I-I didn’t,” I stuttered. “Who are you?”

He ignored the question. “Don’t lie,” his voice quivered, almost breaking. I cowered and stumbled back, nearly falling until he gripped my shoulders and began to shake me hard. His piercing fingernails dug into my flesh. “WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?”
But it all vanished in an instant like grim fog clearing up. I never got to whisper anything back to him because I finally woke up from the nightmare, my hair damp from sweat. I was safe in my bed, everything the same as before. I sighed into my cushiony pillow with my warm blankets piled up on top of me. The soft glow from the small night-light in the corner of my room illuminated the line of real pictures, assuring me that the dream was truly just a dream.

Suddenly,  I was alarmed by the sounds of wailing sirens, the thud of a kicked-open door, footsteps darting in, and a loud voice demanding, “Do not move. You are under arrest.”

It wasn’t an accident, after all.