Devon chewed his cuticles in the darkened theater. How long would this last? He scrunched his knees up and tried to curl into a ball in the seat. Maybe indoors, in the warmth, he could grab some zz's. A storm was raging outside, and it had been building up for the last three days. He couldn't sleep out there.
Devon was on the run. It wasn't his fault! He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now the Rostro gang were after him.
He shuddered and pulled his coat tighter around him. They'd got him, once. That's why he was running now. He didn't know anything. He didn't have whatever it was they thought he had. They didn't believe him. So yesterday when he saw his chance, he'd made a run for it. He had to knock one guy out with a makeshift club. Hopefully that guy wasn't dead. Devon wasn't a killer.
He couldn't go home. They had his ID, so they knew his address. Devon had to use one of the small bills he always kept in his shoe to buy a ticket at this retro-theater. He didn't want to spend much money at all, not knowing how long he'd be running.
The theater played oldies, so tickets were cheap. This week was all John Hughes. That was good. There were a lot of people, so he could get lost in the crowd. Devon had taken a seat in the back row, corner, where he could lean his head back and sleep. If sleep would come.
Even as he tried to relax, Devon's mind was running full-steam ahead. If he could somehow manage to stay in this theater, hidden, would he be safe? At least he'd be out of the storm. That thought gave him some comfort. As long as he didn't screw himself by getting caught before they locked up tonight.
Safety was a relative thing. Safe for now was good, but how long could he keep this up?
It's FICTION FRIDAY!
Every Almost every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.