Runaway

She has been running such a long, long, long time. She runs along the sea and into the night, and if one impossible day she does reach the edge of the world, she would keep running off it. And if that impossible day did so impossibly come, if by then she was still physically able to run, she would run and fall along with the sea as it tumbles inevitably over the edge, into the forever-night lit by the pearlescent and guiltless moon, and finally be free from the thing that has been running after her such a long, long, long time.

For to run off the world is not why she runs. She runs to run away – away from the thing. She runs to feel her lungs burn with each breath; to feel her muscles ache and cry; to feel the soles of her feet rub against her shoes, bleed and blister, neither feet nor shoes meant for so much running. How, then, oh how can she run for so, so, so long? Because – why, just because her body physically must stop, does not mean she is not running on mentally. It does not mean her mind does not run away from the thing still, to run off the world, while she shakes on the sand. Alone, in the dark. Running still.

Alone? But then where is the thing-that-runs-after? The guiltless moon sees her alone. But equally, the moon sees her not-running when still she runs, in her mind, so perhaps – perhaps the thing is in her mind?

Oh, if only – but no. The thing is everywhere. It makes it so very much harder to run from.

She does not hate herself; at least, she does not hurt her body so much because she hates it. She hopes that the pain of her lungs, muscles, feet, will some possible day overpower another type of pain she feels. And for now, they are keen distractions. You can’t unbreak the broken, not that way: it may very well catch her, but she will run and run and run for as long as she can both physically and mentally until it does.

She does not sit and shake for longer than necessary. She does not want anyone other than the moon to see her like this tonight: it’s worse than usual. However, some nights just are worse than others, especially tonight, when the pretty moon shines so purely whole. She thinks nothing extraordinary of it, only that she mustn’t be seen. In her ears there is an intermittent ringing, and has been for quite some time, so she can barely hear let alone register any other sounds – she would certainly not hear a person coming. She begins to take deep breaths, focusing on the strangling pain accompanying them. She rises, knees almost comically knocking, jogs on the spot as hot spikes stab her chest, then sets off with an uneven gait that eventually evens out, sort of, into the run. It’s like running with handcuffs.

Spots dance in her vision amongst the stars. And before she can think, she’s down on the sand again, panting like an animal. Her heart cramps as it contracts, and begs for her to cease her running, but she knows she can’t. She knows, beneath the blinding agony that she uses to occupy her thoughts, that she will break her body down before she would stop. And she thinks, well! her body is young, and all this running has made it fit. Battered, but fit. She thinks she will have run a very long, long, long time before she really must stop in both body and mind. Oh! Maybe she really will have run off the world.

Keep on running in the mind – keep on running in mind – keep on running – running – running – keep in mind–

The guiltless moon sees her eyes roll back in her head. For her, something evil has swallowed it, and night has engulfed all: she can’t see anything, do anything. Consciousness has fled. She isn’t even running anymore.

Its target no longer running away, the thing that has been running after her such a long, long, long time finally catches up. When she catches consciousness again, nothing dramatic or world-shattering happens: only, she bursts open like a broken dam long gone dry, crying and crying floods of invisible tears.

After the sobs have slowed to steady weeping, a lone, more focused sound than any she has heard in a long time comes to her attention. A ringing.

With an old instinct half-forgotten, she pats at her side. Her phone.

There are many words that she does take in: questions that grow quickly to panicked demands about where she is and why she is where she is, and how she has gotten where she is. She doesn’t hear them because of all the feeling and pain, but because she is caught staring almost numbly at the little rectangle on the screen, revealing the sorry state of her. Not only is she sweaty and red-faced like an ordinary runner, but there is a broken look behind her eyes that she has never imagined. In truth, she has never imagined herself at all, or anyone or anything, whilst running. Her face is the face of one that has been running not just from themselves but from others, and consequently help, altogether, for such a long, long, long time.

There are also three words she does take in: “Are you okay?”

After that – that long-loved voice partly-distorted through the phone because her knuckles are white around the speaker – that heartbreaking, simple three-word combination – she can’t hear much at all. The invisible tears break through the dam again, and she is heaving emptily onto the sand.

“Oh, sweetheart,” is the little bit more she hears, “stay there. I’ll find you. I’m coming.”

She lays there, waiting, as there isn't much else she can do. She doesn't know until then how far she has run. Why, she has run to the edge of her world – and just narrowly been saved from running off it.

The long-loved voice does come, as promised. And when they do, dimly, she is aware of the sun coming up, and the moon going down guiltless and smiling.