500 Words: Running Through

Getting started is always the hardest part, but you know that once you’re up and running, everything will ease into its rightful groove. Your joints are springy and fresh, quite up to the task at hand.

You’re off. 

“Wanna play?” says your kid brother, holding a water gun in the middle of the road.

“Not now, gotta run,” you reply, dodging him in one stride. His pouting is palpable for awhile, but the guilt soon subsides.

“Watch where you’re going or you’re going to trip on something, dearie!”

“Thanks grammy,” you say, waving back.

Your feet pump beneath you in a steady rhythm, faster and faster.

“Slow down, honey! These are the best times of your life!” your mother calls from the side of the road. You leave her an apologetic glance.

You’ve hit an arduous uphill streak and your muscles are screaming at you. You ignore them. You notice that sitting on the grassy slope is your best friend from high school, coked out of her mind and staring at the sky listlessly. Your rhythm falters slightly but this hill is far from the end, so you keep grinding on.

You take a deep breath at the peak.

“A college graduate. Wow, hun—hey, wait!” you father shouts from the top of the hill, but you’re going so fast down that hill, all the scenery’s a blur.

You’re flying, and it’s freedom and liberation and love, but all of a sudden someone’s arms clutch your sides and you’re wings are clipped.

“Let go!” you yell, and the hands recoil as if trod upon by your very feet.

Now it’s just white light and road. And you can barely make out the words being shouted at you now.

“I’m leaving,” you think you hear your husband, but you’re too gone to even be sure.

Your legs are getting tired, the bottoms of your feet are burning hot, but you know you can’t stop. You need to make it, and you need to make it fast.

“Where are you going?” your boss yells, perched on a tree, “we just promoted you!”

You can’t spare a second, not even for an acknowledging wave or thumbs up. No time. No time to answer. No time to celebrate. Gotta keep going, you tell yourself.

“Gotta keep going for what?” a bum asks, warming his hands by a trashcan fire. It’s dark, you notice. Nighttime, and the stars are plastered on the sky like your daughter’s glow-in-the-dark ones on her ceiling. But that was ages ago. You recall passing by a swing set before when it was still early, but it’s all a blur.

So you start ot answer, but you realise you’re so far past the bum and his fire, and the euphoria of completion is imminent. Your feet can’t feel anymore, you don’t really remember the last time they did, but you jump anyway. You jump into the ground, solid upon solid, and you breathe in your triumph like flesh upon soil.