On the Run

December 17, 2009
Huff, huff. My breath came fast and short as I gasped for more air. My lungs felt pressured; it was having a hard time getting enough oxygen to my brain. I had to stop! But I couldn’t; I had to run for my life.
I heard the heavy footsteps of a man behind me, his breath making a trail of fog behind him. His black clothes swirling around his self. There was the metallic click of a gun. Click.
BAM! He fired and I fell to the ground, a pain seeping in my arm. It was a numb pain. The man loomed over me, grinning. His hand shot down and…. All went black.
“HUH,” I woke up, sweat dampening my face and hands. Looking out of the small, crude window, I saw that it was night. I could get more sleep. The rest of my dream was of Mother, whispering my name in a scared voice, “Juliet!!! Juliet….”
I’ve always had these nightmares ever since my mother was taken to jail. She had died in those cold cells, with nobody to hold her hand as she took her last breath. Ever since the man in black came to the doorsteps. Ever since he held the knife to my throat.
The man was my mother’s ex-boyfriend. He wanted revenge on my mother, for what, he wouldn’t tell. But I had escaped. Yes. I had survived. Taking my blanket, food, and clothes, I stuffed them into my backpack and run. Ran for my life, I did. Ran from the man.
So now I lived under the stars and ran under the sun. If it rained, I sat under a tree. Sometimes, I’d find money dropped on the ground and bought myself food. If I couldn’t, I went to the homeless shelter for food and safety.
But this was the Life. Free, under the stars, breathing the damp, dewy smells of the night. Or my hair blowing around in the wind, looking over a small town or city when I climbed over mountains.
I had a pretty comfortable life. That is, until he found me again.
This time, I was in New York, heading for Maine.
Chapter 2
BEEP! BEEPBEEP!!! A car horn blared at me. I quickly crossed the street. I threw a dirty look at the taxi driver that had honked at me. He shook his fist back. Disgusted, I walked down the crowded street, jostled by busy businessmen, people with nothing to do, couples, taking in the amazing attractions.
I myself was pretty happy in New York. You could get yourself lost here. That’s exactly what I wanted. Sleepily, I threw down my beat-up backpack and curled up in the alley. I had that dream again, but this time, he showed his face, not just his grin.
The man’s face had pockmarks, his whole face red from the sun sweat glistening around his temples. His eyes glittered coldly, like black ice; his arched eyebrows wet from sweat, his mouth peeled back in a cruel smile of triumph.
I woke up, tears in my eyes, running down my face continuously. The dream wasn’t sad, it wasn’t scary, but I woke up crying anyway. But what was different was that there was a man in front of me. His hands shoved deep in his pockets, his head covered by a hat. It was the man in black!
With a choked cry, I sprung up from my sleeping position, grabbed my sack and made a run for it. My leg muscles were well developed from climbing or running up or on deadly cliffs, trails, and mountains. I was built up and young, he took modern transportation and was old. I could do it, I could outrun him!

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