Seven Billion Secrets

SHE WAS USED TO THE NAMES. AT SCHOOL, THEY WERE THE ONLY NAMES SHE WAS called by. Even when she wasn’t called by those names out loud; she could tell that people thought them before they said her name.
Everything is an inky onyx. At the end of the tunnel, a dim lantern’s light extinguished, the shatters of the invisibled clear glass echoed, splitting the silence. Somewhere in the distance, the squeak of a thousand sneakers approaches. She turns around slowly, the fabric of her flowing gown swirling around her sides. Her name is called; her real name. Terrified, she spins around quickly, running with the pain of her five-inch heels digging into the concrete. The concrete is uneven and roughly finished; her feet stumble as she looks back, panicked. Her hands roughly grasp the folds of the dress, pulling it up as she runs. A split in the uneven concrete traps her heels, sending her sprawling onto the floor. Her forehead smashes against the ground and she blacks out for a second. Scrambling, she tugs at her shoes, their heels wedged in the floor.
The voices are closer. She can feel their sick, hot breath on her shoulders, their fingers grasping at the empty air for her. It’s not working. Nothing is working. Tears of fear pull into her eyes. “Come on, dammit—”
Fingers clutch her arms, pulling them behind her. Before she can scream, a hand is thrust over her mouth. The rough hands. The feel of her tears as they slide down her face.