Sherry stopped, hearing nothing but the sound of her own breathing for a brief moment, the darkness shrouding everything around her. She was closed in a small closet near the end of the hall. Judging by the mops and buckets and brooms, it was a janitor's closet. It smelled of dank old cleaning products, and of Sherry's own sweat. That was okay with her, though, because it drowned out, however slightly, the smell of blood.
Her hands were gripped tightly around the knife, which Claire had given her. She wasn't sure if she would have the courage to use it, or even if it would do much damage at all if she did use it, but she kept her fingers laced around the grip, finding comfort in its solidity and potential protection. Her breathing slowed a little, and she could hear the footsteps in the hallway outside of her little closet sanctuary.
She sunk back into the recesses of the closet, pressing herself against the wall. Her arm brushed against a broom or mop, something with a long handle, and before she could catch it, it fell forward and knocked against the door. She pressed a tiny hand to her mouth before she could let out a cry. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, but she could not hear the footsteps outside anymore. Silence.
She listened closely, hoping against hope that whatever was out there had continued on its way without bothering her. She lowered her hand, renewing a grip on the knife, and that was when she heard the footsteps again, this time coming louder and closer, louder and closer, toward her. Her fingers tightened on the knife even further, and when the door opened, she squeezed her eyes tight and slashed as hard as she could: one, two, three times—and she could feel it making its cuts deep into whatever its mark was.
A man's scream, and the warm splash of blood. Whatever it was that was attacking him backed off, and she opened her eyes. Her heartbeat stopped and instead of quickening, leapt to her throat. What she thought had been some sort of monster or zombie was neither at all, but a policeman, who now had a gash on his hand and two cross-cutting his face. Judging by the blood gushing from them, they weren't shallow, either. "Oh my gosh!" she exclaimed. "I'm so sorry!"
The police officer held up the hand that wasn't bleeding to the girl, signaling her to come no further. He tugged past Sherry and found a rag on one of the shelves. He was holding a sleeve to his face, trying to stop the bleeding, but it wasn't doing much. He sniffed the rag and tied it around his hand, slowing the bleeding considerably. He picked up another rag, sniffed it, and dabbed at his cheek, where the cut may have even cut down to the bone.
"I'm Leon," he said. "I'm a—" He stopped for a minute, composed himself, and continued. "I'm a police officer here. I can—help you." He cringed as he continued to dab at his face with the rag, soaking up the blood. "What's your name?"
"Sherry," she replied timidly. "I'm sorry."
"You were scared," said Leon. "There's nothing I wouldn't have done were I you. Let's stick together." He held out his un-slashed hand, and Sherry looked at it for a moment before finally taking it and giving him a smile.
