Running for my Life

Trigger warning: There are several sensitive themes within this tale. Sexual violence on a child. Gun violence is also mentioned.

Closing my eyes I know I saw the truth clearer than people who meander through congested crowds searching for silver seats in stands and cheer for a person here and there. I am the lone soldier on that line impatiently waiting on the crack of a rifle to begin my defeat. Bone white lines that fence in losers and winners and those pretending to be something they’re not.  

“Boom.”

First steps seemed too easy. 300 yards to go.  

Dang! Red Shirt is moving fast – too fast for me. I think. It has to be too early to speed up.  Before I can get my body to prepare for a shift, the wind from Green Sports Bra just pushes me backwards, and I don’t stumble. Thank you, God. I do regroup though. I must keep going.  Mama told me I could make it. She said I can do it. 

“Nala, you can do it. You-” pleaded mom while inspecting pristine nails fresh from Patricia’s shop. The pity in her voice grated against my skin. 

“Mom, please, don’t –,” I started. “I can’t deal with all of that.”

“Nallie Pooh,” she started again. She knows how I feel about that pooh crap. I am a whole senior in high school. I am one month from leaving this school, his house, and the whole state. Why does she keep drowning me with her pity? 

“You understand that your time is the worst in your heat.  Do you know what you have to do to win?

“Yeah.” I squeezed my eyes shut.

I could smell her pity. It was infectious. Her cough brought me back to her, I guess.  Her neatly trimmed hair. Her outfit fresh from the dry cleaners that she put on just to watch Netflix. 

 “Yes, ma’am, I know what I need to do – win.” 

Nope, you can’t think about that while you run.

“Get on your mark,” the man had said. I swear my foot hit the pavement, but the taste of rubber haunted each future step. I don’t know if it was worse to fall less than 20 yards from the finish line or having your mama standing on the fence telling all who would listen, “My baby almost won. 20 yards to go. Yup. She is that good.”

200 yards down. Two more to go. Halfway done. I can hear Green Sports Bra’s grunts. They mirror my own breathing. The tears were yelping to get out. I wish I could say fatigue is the one that is reaching for my hand. I can’t just walk to the goal post and plop down on the slick blue mattress that is usually reserved for high jumpers. I am not going to last much longer in this house with her and definitely not him. I can feel my heart pleading with me to release my clenched fist and use my arms and understanding that I need this to survive. Out of nowhere here comes Orange Shirt with tiger paws in her lane, but running with the steam that should blow my personal record out of the water. I am not going to speed up. Just keep my pace. 

Crispy white letters with red, blue, or purple letterheads stuck on boards in Coach Peter’s office declaring that my teammates were wanted. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I get it together? D1 schools snatched them up like the best fruit at Whole Foods sitting under the mist. They had the grades and some of the best times, but I had a decent GPA, and the best times on the team and the worst performances my entire senior year. I ceremoniously joined all the peppy clubs at school I could. I was active everywhere. Failed attempt at making myself appear more appetizing.  Consistently, putting on that ridiculous royal blue polo proving that I could engage in conversations about vanilla heroes saving poor chocolate kids from the cages built because of dead men on forest green paper.  

Last night in her final Hail Mary, Mama sat me down again. 

Before she could even begin, I cut her off, “Mama, I know what they want. I am trying to get it. I just don’t seem to be able to consistently deliver the numbers they need. I think my last three million races kinda hurt my chances, but this is something I want to do. I want to run.”

I don’t continue…my thoughts…I keep trying to escape moments where I have to focus on the finish line and figure out how to get there.  I don’t explain how I am always running. Hell, I ran from her husband’s brother for years before I discovered how to protect myself. Piss on myself and let it run miles down my leg and allow it to crust in the crevices so the smell would linger in torn panties. I ran from the girl that said I stole her boyfriend waving that small black gun. Knowing damn well I didn’t steal him. He lied because he was with Jessica down the street, but he knew Jessica would have sliced her name on his girlfriend’s face. So, he chose me the fastest girl on the track team. The fastest girl that keeps on losing at the track meet. The fastest girl that can’t stop her left leg from locking up and squeezing her lifeline to a halt. The fastest girl won that day. I cleared that privacy fence with everything except my shoe. That raggedy fence with missing boards gripped my shoestring and held on tight. Yanking that shoestring, I tugged. Her shouts and then the crazy girl shot the gun in the air that released her shoestring. I ran because I couldn’t die like this. I couldn’t die over that future Burger King cashier. I had more to do. I had to win. My life depended on it.

I have to win. My feet are heavy, but staying at home and going to the college down the street wasn’t how my life would go. 

I feel my clenched hands release. 

Coach Peters handed me a folded-up sheet of paper. “Nala, you have to relax. You can do this. You are your biggest threat.”  I read this five minutes before I stepped in between clean white lines on this blood red track.  

80 yards to go. Time to do this. I can feel my heart swell and the blood rush to my arms that are now willing my feet. My feet aren’t used to answering to others, but my legs can’t help but respond. I am at Red Shirt’s heels.