Dandelions

Their taunts echoed in my mind with each thundering step. Taunts that could cause harm if I let them. Taunts that didn’t matter.  At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself. Because as much as anyone wants to pretend, words do hurt. They can hurt as surely as a knife can. I would know.

I know it’s foolish to want to give in to their taunts. I know it’s foolish to want to show them how wrong they are. It’s foolish because they are not wrong. As much as I want to --and I really, really want to-- prove them wrong, I also know I can’t. I can only run. I can only ever run. So I will run. Until I can’t run anymore. Hopefully by then they’ll be unable to run too. Even better, maybe I’ll be able to give in to their taunts without promising myself a death sentence. But I know better.

You can’t run.

The hell I can’t. I’m running right now, aren’t I?

But that’s not what the words meant. Not what they mean as the bounce all around my head, as they swim in my vision, as I run, run, run. They mean something entirely worse that I don’t dare face. Because then I won’t be able to keep running.

You can’t even smile.

Four words. Four damn words that have never been more true. 

I could smile once. I can barely taste the memory, and I miss it more than anything. Okay, I can’t smile. But that it your fault. Not mine. You took that from me, and I will never forgive you for it. I kid myself into thinking that one day you will pay for it.

I just have to keep running. They won’t catch me. They can’t catch me. As long as I let go of those damn taunts. Let them go. Let them go. Let. Them. Go.

But I can’t. So I will stop running. But not yet. And I don’t know if I dread that time or look forward to it. I can’t even remember which I’m supposed to feel.

I hear their footsteps catching up. The crescendo overwhelms the voices in my head until only one remains. 

He’ll already be dead by the time we get to him.

I never was dead, fool. Maybe I was. Maybe I am. Maybe I was the fool. Maybe I still am. I don’t wan’t to be the fool. 

There is only a ringing. I can’t hear the footsteps anymore. Maybe they stopped. Maybe I out ran them. Not likely. I hope the ringing goes away. It only gets louder, piercing even the ears in my memory. The smile from before fades and now I taste nothing but the metallic tang of blood from running so long.

I weep for the taste. I weep for the memory. I try to reconjure it, but there is nothing left but the faint footsteps and the piercing shriek of my past. The past I can’t remember anymore. I weep for the past.

I don’t remember who’s chasing my anymore. I can still hear the footsteps, though I have grown numb to the shrieking. Maybe it’s gone. I certainly can’t hear it. But it only makes the footsteps louder. I am still weeping. I can taste salt mingling in with blood. There is nothing anymore, other than my own pain. And the pursuing footsteps. They don’t slow down, but I do. I slow down more than I should. As they get even closer, I… I think I remember. The taunts. No. No. No. I don’t want that memory. Give me a different one. Take it back. Take it back! But it’s already been returned. And with it that damn shrieking.I can’t take it anymore. The shrieking. No more.

But the footsteps help. They’re chasing me into going faster, faster, faster. They’re like a drum that never stops. That goes on too long. But it helps me go faster. Yes, that’s all I need. Go faster. Faster. I can keep running. That’s all I can do. That’s all I’m good for anymore.

A glance behind me assures that there is no one there. But I can hear them! Why can I hear them? Maybe it’s all in my head. But it can’t be. Because then… what have I been running for? Go faster.

There must have been a reason. Why is there no one there? I hear something else, but how can I know if it’s real. Wait. It is real. It’s me. It’s my own voice. I’m screaming. I haven’t heard that in a long, long time. Since before I started running. When was that? I can’t remember. Of course I can’t. It’s only fitting.

Greed is what got me here. That much I remember, at least. Even while I kept on taking and taking, I knew that I was thrusting the dagger into my stomach, I knew the hand twisting it was my own. And no one else can pull it out but myself. But it’s too late. Too damn late. The shriek, that unbearable screech, I realize, has always been my own. Has been the greed screaming for more. It needs more. I need to feed it. Because it is a monster. A monster with sharp fangs and menacing claws. A monster that looks in the mirror and sees a dancer.

This chase… it’s wearing me out. Has been for a while. Since the start. Since the last time I screamed in my own voice. Not the greed. The greed, that has finally caught up with me. I still don’t know if I am sorry. I think… I think I am. I’m sure, at least, that I will be sorry. That much is certain. Because everything comes back, whether you like it or not. Comes back like an echo, though time and space has distorted the echo past recognition. Comes back like those yellow flowers that no one can ever get rid of. I forget what they’re called. I want to remember. I want too much.