Refuge

You're standing on a train platform. Your dirty, cold hands are stuffed into the pockets of the two sizes too big jacket. And you have this look of horror on your pale face that is tight enough to brew a headache.

You weren't supposed to see this.

No one was supposed to see this.

But you have.

You saw the satisfied look on that police officer's face when the train silenced the screaming girl.

The tears in your eyes are due to the windy tunnel, definitely not due to the crunching of her bones echoing in your head like it is still happening.

And for a moment, you convince yourself you must've fallen asleep on the train again.

"Hey!" The man in blue shouts at you from across the tracks.

Your train will be here any second, but the officer is bolting right towards the stairs, and your feet seem to shift faster than your brain as they push you towards the station stairs at the far end of the platform.

The spray cans in your backpack clank together, ringing through the concrete underbelly of the city as the sound of government-issued standard footsteps beats in the distance behind you.

You take the stairs three at a time, your knees buckling under the weight of oversized layers and sheer panic. Behind you, the metallic screech of the approaching train fills the station, headlight beams cutting through the gloom, too late to save the girl and too late to save you.

"Stop right there!"

The officer’s voice echoes off the tiled walls, amplified by the station’s damp archways. You burst through the turnstiles into the gray chill of the street level, the cold air hitting your lungs like broken glass.

You sprint into the alley network behind the station, a labyrinth you’ve mapped in your sleep with quick-drying chrome and black acrylic. Every footfall is a gamble against wet cobblestones and oily puddles, but you know where the shadows bite deepest.

You plunge into a narrow gap between two boarded-up tenements, pressing your spine against the brickwork and hauling your breath into small, quiet gasps. You yank the dark beanie lower over your pale face, squeezing your eyes shut as the headache behind your temple pulses to the rhythm of your pounding heart.

Heavy leather boots crunch to a halt at the mouth of the alley. A flashlight beam cuts through the fog, sweeping over trash heaps and rusted fire escapes, hovering just inches from your oversized sleeve as you try to shrink into the darkness.

He didn't just let her die, your mind screams. He pushed her. He watched.

What was her crime? What is your crime?

The flashlight flickers, then retreats. "Dispatch, got a runner at Sector 4," a radio crackles, terrifyingly calm. "Think she pushed a girl into the tracks. Be on the lookout for a girl wearing a big jean jacket and a brown beanie. She seemed to be on something, so show some caution."

The footsteps fade into the traffic noise, but the silence that replaces them is worse. You open your eyes, your cold fingers trembling as they clutch the strap of your backpack. You aren't just a loner tagging transit walls anymore.

You're the only living witness to a murder wearing a badge—and the city is about to close every exit.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and try to contact someone, anyone, but your phone has been dead for the last hour.

You came here to study from Ohio not three weeks ago; there is not a soul within these city limits that would, or could, help you right now. The thought makes your chest tighten as you peek out the corner of the alleyway when you see the large stained-glass windows in the distance.

A patrol car is parked across the street from the church, a block and a half away from the shadows you try to blend into.

"These streets aren't safe, you know." A faceless man wearing a baggy black hoodie says as they walk down the sidewalk past you, before stopping to eye you curiously. "You got a boyfriend?"

"I have a gun." You lie quickly, your nostrils flaring angrily at the trajectory of this night.

"Chill, bitch, no one wanted your ugly ass." The man says with a disgusted up and down look at you. "Seriously, I'm such a nice guy." He scoffs but leaves you be with an appalled look at the accusation.

The nicest thing he did was leaving, you think with a relieved exhale.

The interaction doesn't shake you. You've had a lifetime of lying to save your skin. Now it is time to run to save your skin, but your legs feel like Jell-O.

The nice guy walks down the dark sidewalk with his hands in his pockets as you ready yourself to sprint towards the church.

A block and a half. That’s all it is. Across cracked asphalt, slick with a thin sheen of night condensation, under the amber glow of streetlights that seem to buzz with a nervous energy of their own.

You draw in a slow, deep breath through your nose, trying to force oxygen back into legs that feel more like water than muscle. Ohio felt flat, predictable, safe. This place feels like a maze designed to swallow you whole.

Across the street, the patrol car remains idle. The light inside the cab flickers once, the officer adjusting a laptop or shifting in their seat. A police presence should offer some relief, but the tight knot in your chest tells you otherwise. Out here, drawing attention, even official attention, feels like rolling dice with stakes you can't afford.

The stained-glass windows of the church loom above the tree line, glowing faintly from some interior, low-wattage sanctuary bulb. Cobalt blues, deep ruby reds, and fractured golds promise sanctuary, or at least a door with a deadbolt.

You shift your weight to the balls of your feet, fingers digging into the cold brick of the alley wall behind you.

Three, two, one.

You step out of the shadows.

You dash, using parked cars and broken streetlight shadows as cover. Every instinct screams at you to move faster, but speed makes noise, and noise brings eyes. Instead, you keep your stride long and swift, hugging the shadows cast by parked sedans along the sidewalk. Your boots hit the pavement in a fast, muted rhythm. At least at this pace, your spray cans don't rattle like a tin windchime.

Ten yards out, the patrol car’s engine suddenly revs, a low, rhythmic rumble that makes your heart leap into your throat. You freeze, pressing your back against the passenger side door of a rusted pickup truck, holding your breath until the air in your lungs burns. Through the tinted glass of the patrol vehicle, you see the silhouette of the driver reach up, turn off the interior dome light, and shift into drive.

The cruiser rolls slowly forward, pulling away from the curb and heading down the avenue, its taillights bleeding two red streaks into the damp asphalt before disappearing around the corner.

You don't waste a second.

You break into a full run across the remaining street, the soles of your shoes slapping against the pavement. The church towers over you now, a massive Gothic structure of dark granite and weeping ivy. Up close, the stained-glass windows aren't glowing from a gentle sanctuary light—they flicker erratically, casting jittery, fractured hues of amber and violet onto the stone steps.

You push through the heavy doors when the thick scent of old wood, melted beeswax, and something sharp, like ozone after a lightning strike. The ambient noise of the city dies instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence.

Your trembling breath is the only sound you can hear until the sound of a sweeping robe echoes in the distance, making your eyes dart towards the blurry figure at the end of the altar.

They pause under the bleeding man on a cross, who looks like he's being tortured by the owners of this sanctified cage.

What was his crime? The thought boils in your mind as the figure stalks closer, slowly between the aisles.

"Have you come seeking God?" The man asks, stopping below the upper-level archway at the end of the aisle. The shadows hide his face, but a flickering candle reflects off the golden cross over his chest.

The police sirens in the distance make you turn with a jolt.

"Or have you come to confess?" He is now a foot from you, as he watches you from his crouched position across from you. Still, you cannot see his face. Only the dim candlelight in his eyes, and then in his pearly white teeth.

"I've done nothing wrong." You whisper as you press your back against the door tightly.

"That's what the last girl said." The man says as he pushes himself up to stand and turns away to leave as the sirens in the distance start to blend with the sound of his boots.

And then they're gone.

You couldn't hear the city inside these walls.

You couldn't hear the sirens.

Not even the clanking of your spray cans behind you.

Your eyes drift carefully to the flickering lights along the dark nook to your right, and that is when you see her.

The girl stands faced away, seemingly frozen before the candles, but you recognize her orange coat. It stuck out to you across the platform. You thought it was bold.

"Why is it..." The girl says calmly as her face turns for you to see beyond her dark curly hair. "...that all who die alone end up here?"