Geminus

I cannot hear anything save the furious pounding of my heart, perfectly in sync with every footfall upon the muddied path. The trees flash by me in a blur of greens and moss-covered trunks; my lungs struggle to inhale the wet, musty air as I push them far beyond their limit. If I were to think too hard on it, the pain would be overwhelming; the fire in my muscles and chest, the damp seeping into my bones. Yet the blur of my panic is overridden by instinct, and my adrenaline, and I somehow find the strength to press on, to keep moving, because stopping isn’t an option. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

“Stop!” a voice calls out, not for the first time, and the sound of it sends a shudder through my belly. “Stop!” Their own footfalls sound like a war drum in my ears, an ominous warning to keep going keep going keep going. The forest surrounds me in mystery, and I have no clue if I am running towards freedom or further into its clutches. Either way it matters little to me if I can simply get away – because if he catches me, its over. They’ll make sure I don’t get away again.

He might even kill me.

The evening fog is rolling in and I thank the high heavens for it. I may be able to lose him if it persists, dive into a narrow trench somewhere and wait for him to wander off. A slim chance, but it was better than nothing. As it was now, he was too close – far too close. A stumble or a fall of any sort would send me back into his clutches, and the horrid remembrance of that cramped room with no sunlight, the beatings, the cruelty…

He won’t take me again. I’d rather die, rather die, he cannot –

“Stop!” the voice bellows again, snapping me out of my panicked trance. I dare not waste a breath on response and instead desperately seek out something – anything – that would give me respite. I am weak from his tortures, my muscles shrunken and withered from months upon months in that hellhole. Nothing but the pure instinct to survive is driving me forward, but I won’t be able to outrun him. Not for much longer. The wind whistles past my ears like some shriek of the damned, a reminder of the countless souls he has taken and no doubt buried in this deep, dark forest. I find then that I am crying, wasting precious energy on the outpour of my despair. So long I have waited for this chance for escape, to see my family again, to once more taste the freedom that had so viciously been robbed from me.

Eight months. Eight months he stole from me –

The answer to a half-formed prayer appears through the fog surrounding me, laying itself out as a fork in the path. I have heard that in moments of life and death, the brain seems to slow everything down to process options that ensure survival. So it is for me in this moment, yet it feels spiritual somehow, inexplicably fast in making a decision. At the last possible moment, I shift and take the left branch of the path, the one that splits off into a rock outcropping leading down to the riverside. I can hardly breathe and my heart is slamming so hard into my ribs it feels like they may break; but I know this path, I have seen it before, and something like hope surged in my chest upon seeing it. This pathway leads to what my children would call the “rock playground.” Boulders millions of years old sit adjacent to the river’s edge, full of small caves and caverns that the children loved to play on. We used to picnic here. Many people do.

And even if no one else was here, it would at least offer me a place to hide.

I slip and stumble on the wet earth, scrambling to what I pray is a haven amongst the boulders. I dodge and weave between them, distantly wondering if I have just trapped myself in a rock-strewn tomb. There’s no time to think about it now though; I scramble up and between a low-hanging ledge and launch myself into a tapered cave. My body is heaving from the effort and I grimace, shuddering, as I wedge myself between the rocks and frantically try to stop my labored breathing. The fog is still settling into the valley and I pray it is enough to hide me. If I lean forward, I can make out the pathway I just escaped from. And if he is anywhere near, he will be able to hear me. It is quiet as death here.

As if the thought alone has summoned him, I can just make out his lumbering form emerging from the fog before I slam myself back against the cave wall, hands over my mouth, tears still streaming down my face. I dare not move or breathe as his frantic footsteps rush around me, trying to find me. I can hear him curse and the profanity echoes within my own mind; I cannot tell where he is, how close or far. The sounds bounce and echo off this boulder prison and I cannot locate his whereabouts. Yet even now I know this was my only chance. Had I chosen the other path, I would have run to exhaustion and he would have caught me. He would.

“Where the hell are you?” The breath freezes in my lungs and I press myself harder against my rock wall. I am drowning in my fear, unable to breath as he ambles past, muttering my name to himself. “I know you’re here.” This is it. The chance I’ve been waiting all this time for, the first and only opportunity I have had for escape. Freedom or death, my brain frantically reminds. Those are my choices.

And I know which one I want.

My eyes scan my constricted surroundings in a frenzied haze until they land on a medium sized rock wedged between a crevice. Body still shaking, I creep forward and yank it from its place, silently thanking heaven once more that it wasn’t stuck. If I wait too much longer, he will find me. Him or me. Him or me. Him or me. The chant repeats itself over and over in my head until I gather focus and edge back towards the little cave’s opening. And I wait.

The sound of him circling back to my hiding place sends another bolt of adrenaline through my body. My breathing has calmed but my heart remains intent on slamming so hard against my ribs, I am certain he will hear it. His pace is quick, angry, determined. He will not stop until he’s found me. And so the moment I see him wander past once more through the fog and right past me, I take aim at the now-familiar sight of his cropped hair and hurl the rock with all my might.

Direct hit.

He crumples to his knees immediately, crying out in anger and pain. I waste no time in my approach, scooping down to grab the rock and hurl it once more at the back of his head. This blow brings him fully to the ground but I am like a thing possessed, angry, determined. I slam it over and over and over again until he stops moving, until my chest is heaving, until the pure instinct to survive has abated and I am standing over his dead body. Freedom, is all that echoes within me. After all this time, after my own capture and torture for what seemed an eternity it was over.

Over.

I drop my weapon, sucking in the moist air and hold it until I formulate some kind of plan as to what I should do next. Get the hell out of here. Find my family. Stay on the move, be smarter, be bolder, be better this time. The notion spurs a thought and I squat down, using what little strength I have left to roll his body over and yank off the badge from the front of his uniform. I quickly search his pockets and remove all forms of identification, for one final “screw you.” They’ll know it was me.

They’re familiar with my calling card.

Pocketing my goodies, I try to steady my shaking hands as I move out from the boulder playground. Now that the imminent danger has passed, my mind wanders back to the life I am returning to. One on the run, for sure, but as I stare at my bloodstained hands I cannot help but smile at the familiar sight. I will once more be able to do what I love.

And how many people can say that?