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Running Away

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She wants to scream at them, and tell them that she is here, existing in front of their faces. Her voice constricts before she can get out a single word. The facts are lain out clearly in front of those who want to see. Nobody wants to see. They only want to look. She cannot articulate emotions. Her face remains stoic, her fingers flaccid, and her lips pursed.

There are roses scattered on the pathway. She walks carefully around. The sea of red has not been tainted brown by the science of oxidation. They are still layers of silken red, ribbons of condescension. They remain moist and vital, even though she knows they are far away from their roots.

Soon, the roses are behind her. She walks only before stopping to gaze up at the sky. It is night; the stars shine brightly, twinkling with some unknown secret. There is Canis Major sitting up in the sky, relaxing and oblivious to her gaze. Orion is just visible above a thin cloud. From the thickest cloud, Sirius shines the brightest. The dog is man’s best friend. The edges of her mouth turn upward a bit, in pensive thought. A dog could solve her problems, whatever they were. A dog would be her loyal companion unable to break its promises.

Looking forward again, she walks straight, passing the whispers growing increasingly louder in her head. She eyes a lone baby crying on the side of the path. The baby’s sobs are incessant. They are like screws being drilled into her mind. The baby is wrapped in a white, cotton blanket like fresh snow covering the sharp blades of grass. The cries become louder. Her head hurts. She runs.

She runs for a while, long enough that she has lost track of time. However, time is not important. Time is useless. When it runs out, things will end. Time is what she keeps track of for fun. It is simply a marker for events now so seemingly meaningless—but not meaningless enough to forget.
She keeps running, thoughts pounding through her head as her feet hit the path constantly. She has betrayed herself. She remembers the apple tree where she sat under to gaze at the clouds and guess shapes, or when she stared up into a starlit sky, trying to identify constellations. There were never too little clouds that she could not imagine as a floating castle or standing sheep. The grass she sat on was always soft, not blades that pricked her skin. She could pirouette on the greenery without stumbling. Her bare feet would be stained afterwards. If she did fall, there was always something to catch her, besides, the grass was cushioning enough.

She has always enjoyed the flora. Everything except the roses. They do not fit in with the daisies, dandelions, or orchids. They stand with an air of arrogance and venom in their lush petal’s color. The stems are adorned with embellishments of thorns so tempting to touch. She does not touch them. She never waters them. But they still grow in spite of her. She is starting to think that they do not care.

In front of the path lies a bright light, most likely the rising sun. It is orange and yellow with tints of pink far out into the sky. The rays are not hot. The air is still chilly, but not freezing. She has forgotten that she had been running. The roses and baby are far behind. Canis Major has disappeared from the sky, left with the orange-pink sky full of brightness. She cannot help but feel that she is missing something. There is an emptiness inside of her that she cannot voice; otherwise it would come out as a song, not a sentence. She has nothing to leave behind anymore, no love, no loss, and no chances. Her path is set in concrete, straight in front of her.

She will keep running until she
flies.



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