The Santa Carla air was cold and vicious that night, not very unlike the strong waves whipping against the shore.
There, on the beach, the girl who was going to die ran. Her blonde, puffed hair whipping behind her and her cheeks red from exertion. The cold wind whipped her in the face and made her skin crawl and spine tingle but she kept running for her life.
It was one of those nights where every man ended up in a bar fight. The wives and children were probably at home, watching television or maybe reading books. By this time, the children would probably be asleep. Eleven o'clock was, after all, way past a child's bedtime.
The bikers were probably already drinking themselves to death, the Surf Nazis were on the beach or somewhere else destroying property, getting drunk, doing drugs or surfing in the cold sea. It was so dark outside, the girl who was going to die found herself tripping on random rubble in the sand every now and then. Only the bright, white moon gave her light to see anything now that she was far away from the comforting streetlights of the Boardwalk.
"C'mon, stop running, babe!" a voice called. The girl who was going to die could almost see the owner's shit-eating grin in front of herself as she heard them all shout and call after her, laughing, mocking. "I won't bite… Much!"
She screamed as something grabbed her left ankle and she fell to the ground, landing on her front and getting the air knocked out of her. Turning around, she faced her fate with wide, dark-chocolate eyes.
A hand cupped her cheek and another grabbed her wrist, pulling her up. Everything faded out except for two light-blue, angelic eyes. They stared at each others for a long time. He whispered softly to her.
"I'm really sorry it had to come to this…" he murmured in her ear, brushing a strand of her hair behind it and kissing her cheek softly. "I really am."
The girl who was going to die sobbed.
"I wish I never met you."
He hushed her with his index finger against her soft lips. His other hand cupped her cheek.
"Me too."