A/N: Wow I guess you all kinda hate me now and it's understandable... I mean no one reviewed my one shot but it DID kinda suck. But oh well I was feeling slightly depressed and wanted to write. Oh and Justify is being killed. Just can't finish it. Sorry to all who enjoyed it.
Anywho, I just got this idea from a dream I had believe it or not. The "I" everywhere in the story is me for those confuzzled ('scept not in real life I just based it off what I would do in the situation and my personality, style, etc.)
And here we go!
My P.O.V.
I dragged my weary feet up the steps through my dorm complex, my body worn out from rushing from rushing from class to class.
I groaned as I saw the last flight of stairs. Slowly but surely I made my way up while lugging my oh-too-full-with-homework messenger bag. Retrieving my keys from my purse, I put them in and opened the door, quickly dumping the purse on the small table next to the door.
The dorm wasn't glamorous or anything and it was only big enough for me. Since it's kind of hard for me to be accepted by people, I couldn't stand the thought of a roommate; all I'd heard were nightmare stories.
Thank God my school wasn't that populated. It was only for those students who were going through high school and just needed a little extra challenge.
I sighed as I looked down at the overflowing bag at my hip. Though I was a freshman, they really piled on the work because I was too much of an overachiever and had to go for advanced classes.
I painstakingly dragged the heavy symbol of student-hood over to the cheap, tiny table, emptying it's contents. Making my way over to my little mini-fridge, I noticed small drop of crimson towards the room change between the kitchenette and the rest of the room. Then there was another. And another. All were leading to the space between the wall and my bed, which couldn't be seen from the door.
Curiosity got the better of me and I followed them, slowly turning around my bed, including the space in my vision.
That's when I saw it. A substantially sized pool of blood, freshly spilled, sitting in the carpet fibers. Taped to the wall behind it was a photo of my military history teacher, 1st Lieutenant Dylan Mathews.
I reached for the photo and turned it over (as indicated to do so by the arrow on the side) and gasped, my eyes widening in fear.
"No," I whispered.
On the back of the photo of the smiling Lieutenant, was a message, obviously meant for me.
"He's gonna die. And it's YOUR fault."
I dropped the picture and ran for my cell phone, my slightly bloody hands dirtying the back.
Quickly I dialed the operator and asked for the number of one particular agency. I needed to hurry...
A/N: To satisfy my friend's actually very good question, it will be explained later why I know who to call.