and get walking directions through the maze of streets, but as the blocks get dirtier and more derelict—the stores boarded up, people shuffling out of alleys—I decide that flashing around my iPhone might not be the best idea.
I commit the map to memory.
Turn right on this street.
Turn left on that street.
Go straight until—
A low cough from behind me causes my heart to jump.
I look over my shoulder to see a large man walking a few meters behind me. I can’t make out his face—he’s looking down at the ground rather than at me, which I guess is a relief.
Still, I’m on edge. I’m walking through a strange neighborhood in Nice at night with a large backpack that’s making my pace considerably slower.
Don’t panic, I tell myself. Just a bit farther.
And yet as I take my first right onto Rue d’Alger, the man follows me.
Oh, fuck.
My mouth immediately goes dry from fear.
I swallow thickly and pick up the pace, trying to tell myself that it’s a coincidence and he’s not following me. I can’t be suspicious of everyone.
And yet everything seems more empty and darker somehow, and I’m starting to panic, hearing his heavy, lumbering footfalls behind me.
I have to be sure.
I take another right this time, so I’m basically heading back the way I came, toward the hostel, to try to throw him off guard.
He follows.
He’s fucking following me!
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Now what do I do?
I can almost feel him at my back, getting closer and closer, the dread around my heart tightening like a vice.
What do I do, what do I do?
I grip the straps around my shoulders, my head held high with false confidence, my eyes darting from side to side, trying to see a way out of this situation. But there’s no one else around. Not a soul. I have a better chance of getting to the hostel or at least an open store of some sort before I get to the train station.
I should at least cross the road. If he follows me, then I know to start running. The last thing I want is to start freaking out for no reason and look like an idiot, but that would definitely be a solid sign that You need to run, bitch.
I look down the street and see a car turning onto it, the headlights illuminating the dark street just enough. I take a chance and glance down the street, hoping to get a good look at this guy just in case something happens to me.
All I see is a large bald man running toward me with his hands out, and then a glimpse of his wild eyes.
It all happens in a blur.
I cry out and turn to run from him, but just as I’m stepping off the curb, he grabs the back of my pack, yanking me to the side.
My left foot lands at an unnatural angle.
I cry out as sharp pain shoots up from my ankle, jagged bolts of hot lightning that run along my thigh, all the way to my heart, freezing me on the spot, both in terror and in pain.
And yet I’m falling anyway, my shoulder striking the pavement, my skin on fire, as the man tries to get my purse over my head, the cross-body strap digging into my windpipe.
I’m screaming and yelling, but it’s coming out garbled, and I’m trying to kick with only one leg, because my other one is exploding with pain. Through my cries and the man’s hoarse grunts as he fights for my purse and pack, I hear the screech of brakes—and then suddenly there’s another man on the scene.
As I scramble, frantically trying to get away, I see this new man tackle my attacker, bringing his gargantuan frame to the ground, and then I’m free from his grip.
But I can’t run; I can barely move. I only scramble so far, my palms and elbows scraping along the rough pavement, before I collapse onto the street in the fetal position, feeling pain run in sharp rivers all throughout my body.
The men continue to tussle—it’s like two wild beasts in a fight to the death—and then the new guy is throwing heavy, savage punches at my attacker. I hear the breaking of bone, see the spurting of blood, and I close my eyes, wishing I could wake up from this violent nightmare.
Then everything seems to grow quiet.
When a hand touches my shoulder, my eyes fly open, and I let out a high-pitched cry of pure fear.