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Runaway

I run to the church.
It’s not a place that I would normally find myself, let alone consider running past. I travel as far as these bruised, jagged sandals can take me. The sun beats down on me, becoming an obstacle in my journey. My eyes beg for my hands as they cover the radiant sight in the distance.
I’ve got a guitar upon my backside, it’s probably not worth much, but it’s battled both the thin and the thick. It’s the only thing I really have. Trying to gather quick reminders that I had stored in my head, I fail to retrieve the information as I run faster. I would take a break, but time is running out as the clock becomes my nemesis.
Maybe I’m insane, maybe I belong in an asylum, but this is a free land. The world is run by crazies, the ones who think that normality deserves a change. They’re the pure destruction of what used to be, or better yet, what could’ve been.
The prickly stubs of brown hair on my cleft chin drip of sweat – I can’t stop. They told me to ignore everything and just forget all about it, but I never bothered to listen. They didn’t’ know what life was all about. They just didn’t get my relationship with her.
I know I am right. I know that I will succeed; for there is no way that I could possibly fail. I have excessive pride, and I guess it’s just been a trait of mine since day one.
My mother said that I always ambitious, always wanting to finish building the blocks. My father, on the other hand, thought I was lost in the clouds and never came down. I personally don’t know which side to believe.
All of these thoughts begin to vanish as I approach the stainless glass skyscraper, formally known as the church. The sky is the tint of a girl’s blue satin dress, and the trees stay motionless like a broken heart. I don’t know which sight is more beautiful.
The madness ends now. I pull the heavy doors forward and witness a million, properly-dressed faces. My mouth prepares to scream, but before I even can…
She kisses him.
The church bells cry as I run out and head for the hill. As I reach the top, I recall the memories we had, the husband she now has, and our baby she will have. The salt water strikes my pale, ghostly face.
***********************************
“So that’s who mom was?”
“Yeah, son, that’s the story of your mother.”
“Do you think I’ll ever see her again?”
“I don’t know…”
“She hates me, doesn’t she?”
“Of course not. She just thinks it’s best for you to live with your real father.”
“C-can you play the song again?”
I smile and reach for my rusty guitar, and I begin to play the song of her.
At least the guitar has been here after all of this time.



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