When they come for you

Crunch. Thud. Crunch. The only sound I can hear outside of the pressure building in my ears, with my heart sounding like a crescendo running through the dense brush and fog. A combination of cold sweat and residue from the thick fog covers my face. I can barely see how rapidly my hands move in front of me in sync with my strides. If it weren’t for the sporadic reflected beams of a flashlight, I wouldn’t be able to tell whether it was night or day. Besides the fact I wouldn’t be able to see anything, I never once turned to look back. “Champions never look back.” my high school track coach’s words are on repeat, he always started his pre-meet speeches the same way. Champions never look back, the confidence of a champion is knowing they are in a class of their own. 

I am shaken out of my high school flashback at the sound of something new. Could that be a power tool? Some type of engine? My stomach drops at the thought of a drill or chainsaw pressing against my skin. Then the refracted light rays resembling headlights answer my question almost instantly. That hardly seems fair, I may have been the state sprinting champion my senior year but I never could outrun an engine. Also, that was 10 years ago and my daily exercise could hardly be classified as a light jog. My skin begins to prickle, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, it almost feels as if someone or something is right behind me, their warm breath beating down the back of my neck in an even tempo. It’s as if they aren’t trying, that I am easy prey for them. Meanwhile, my throat is on fire and my lungs feel like they are about to give out any second now. My brain won't let them, it knows we are in danger and will do anything to protect us.

My body senses eyes following us as if we’re in a fishbowl, surrounding us from all sides. A second pair of headlights appears in my peripheral, roaring engines getting louder but still having some distance between us. I realize I can’t feel my legs, if it weren’t for the continual feeling of the fog smacking me in the face I wouldn’t believe I was still running. What’s the point? I feel my confidence waning, my brain wanting to give up and accept my fate to whatever’s lurking behind me. Once again, I can feel the breath against my neck, almost as if it knew the war waging inside my head, trying to convince me to stop running. This time the warmth permeated a unique scent, warm vanilla with an after-stench of rotten eggs. I could feel my intestines twist inside me, this time carrying a wave of nausea with it. 

I suddenly flinch at what feels like fingernails grazing up my forearms to my biceps and dragging across my shoulders. I can feel the pressure of the action increase, not enough to break the skin but enough to elicit discomfort. The feeling doesn’t travel above the neck, which brings me a little relief. The sensation stops as I step in what feels like mud, the squishy, cold sensation finding its way between my toes. The sudden shock of cold brings my attention to the fact I am barefoot. The sloshing of mud beneath my feet replaces the crunching of the dead leaves. 

‘Aren’t my eyes supposed to have adjusted by now?’ I attempt to bring my right hand as close to my face as possible, but nothing. I see nothing, and I begin to question if I even moved my hand. The brain is a fascinating structure but can easily be deceived. When you are surrounded by nothing, you begin to question everything. I attempt to move my hand again, this time using more force. The resistance I feel trying to break my running stride is more exhausting than the running. The running I have been doing for… Wait! How long have I been running for? I haven’t made any turns, not that I can see if I did or didn’t anyway, hearing the splash from each step I take, noting the timing between each sound to get an idea of how fast I am moving. The flashing of lights returned followed by the sound from the engines. Trying to use the light to my advantage forcefully using my eyes to get some idea of what is going on, it seems the harder I try, the more headlights appear across the horizon. Finally, my eyes spring open laying motionless in my bed. I am back in my room, my heart eases for a short moment at the familiarity but quickens at the feeling of the fingernails brushing up my body. I still can’t move, and something is coming for me. Hearing the engines again, the cars outdoors, noticing some splashes hitting the floor of my bedroom, from last night's storm. It took everything I had trying to open my eyes, and now I need to move something else, anything else. Shouting at myself, “Move something, anything. Come on, just move!” “Move!” “Move!” “Move!”. I feel a twitch in my fingers and toes, focusing on that, I try to curl my toes and make fists with my hands. Suddenly, the feeling of fingernails brushing up against me subsides and my heart rate begins to regulate. At that moment, the idea of anyone chasing me dissipates and I can slowly make a fist. Going slow, I bend and straighten my arms and legs. Convinced I am not paralyzed, I roll over onto my back and slowly rise to a seated position. 

I take a deep breath, raising my arms above my head to get a big stretch before I move to get out of bed. Taking my comforter off, I swing my legs over the side of my bed to step down. It seems I have stepped in something, looking down to check I do not see anything that could cause the wet squishy sensation I was feeling. But what I do notice is that my toes are covered in mud.