Terry Miller was mopping up after she finished the last batch of dough before she closed up shop. The old wooden sign that said ‘Stick a Fork Cafe’, which was made during the depression, blew in the wind. It was painted white, with red words and blue detailing. The restaurant was next to the high school, which caused a sea of teens to come in everyday at. She lived in Hazelnut, Mississippi, and the night was wet with its usual humidity. Her perky strawberry-blonde was tied into a ponytail, or it would look like a red Chia Pet on the top of her head. Her sparkling emerald eyes were heavy with exhaustion. Her white, long sleeved shirt was turning gray with sweat from being in the sizzling heat of the kitchen all day. Her grey flared jeans were stained with flour and cake batter. She still loved her job, though. She was about finished when she heard a knock at the kitchen door. "Go up front," she yelled, "I'll help you in a minute." She picked up her bucket, then heard someone knock again. "I told you to go up front! It'll be a few minutes!" She sat her mop and bucket aside, then started to clean the day's accumulated dishes. She finished, then heard the knocking once again. Irritated, she went to the door and yanked it open. She looked at the figure before her. Black, linty hood, head down, as if in shame, right foot rubbing behind the left, as if shy, and- what was that on his jeans? It was dark red, and she suddenly had the first pangs of panic wash over her. Keeping his head low, he said, "I got hurt. Can I use your phone?" She panicked, then said, "Of course you can! Right this way." She led him to a phone in the kitchen, then handed him the headset. "Take your time. I'll get you some towels and water." Before she could do so, he stopped her. "Wait a second, miss," he said, "I need to tell you something. Please come here." she walked over to him. He suddenly grabbed her wrist, a knife in his hand. She kicked him hard in his shin, then made a grabbing motion towards the knife. She grabbed it and made a mad dash for the door. She burst out and made a beeline for her car, keys in her trembling hand. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the man stood up and grabbed the closest thing nearby, which was a stainless steel spatula. He looked at the tip. It seems sharp enough, he thought. Then he ran out the door, watching as Terry started to drive off. He ran to the SUV he came in, then drove off after her. Terry had a death grip on the steering wheel, her white knuckled hands covered in sweat, like the rest of her body. Why would someone want to kill me, she thought, why? Then another thought popped into her head. Could it be … Just then, a great, black SUV rammed into the back of her small car. She swerved, but remained on the road. It hit her again, and that caused her to swerve off the road. The compact car flipped once, twice, then rocked to a still stop. Terry undid her seatbelt and crawled out of her car. She tried to stand, but a great pain spread throughout her leg. She cried out in frustration and pain, realizing it was broken. The attacker slid down the hill where she flipped, the spatula still in his grasp. He walked over to her, not concerned that she might escape. He grabbed her broken leg, which made Terry scream out in pain. Then he flipped her on her back, held her down, and then straddled her sternum, so she was weak in defenses. “I’m sorry! Please don’t do this, please STOP!” Then he stabbed her throat, right in an artery. Terry grabbed for her throat, which was bursting warm, wet, sticky blood. She looked at the now familiar face through the tears blinding her. Then felt the melancholy curtain of death pass over her.