Born to Softness
This is not a place to rest. But my heart is climbing my throat and my lungs are the fire I cannot light. Their fast footfalls crunch the twigs and pine needles in the distance, drawing nearer. I am glad for the clouds that hide the moon tonight. But there are many of them, they can circle like coyote packs to flush me out. I cannot stop but I cannot go. Not yet. So I scramble, overly desperate and thus untidy, smearing sap and dirt along my forearms as I push myself deep under an overgrown pine.
I need to be quiet, but my breath is ragged and roaring, a beast I cannot tame. I wrap my fingers over my lips as if that will help stifle the sound. Maybe it will. But they are better at this than I am. They have found me every time. No matter how silent or cunning.
My thoughts are slippery with exhaustion. Dredging memories in random snapshots, overlaid and mixing like my watercolors. The beach and bloody rooftop and a hand in mine. The crawlspace and my sister’s bruised face and the rusted locket twisting in the drain.
I dig my nails into the dirt, trying to hold onto where I am, and that lets the fear back in. It isn’t hard to do. It is always there now, pumping my heart more than my unvalued blood.
Their footfalls are loud now. And worse, slowing.
They know. They always know.
Tears leak from my eyes unbidden as they begin to whistle. The familiar notes twist through my bones, too familiar now. And I can’t control my breathing when there’s this much fear inside me. I am more fear than myself.
And I hate that they have done that to me. Transformed me into something unrecognizable. Washed away every softness and fragility, every lilac color. I am nothing but bruises now. Scrapes and sweat and fear.
I don’t know when this ends. I don’t know how. But I want some part of me to remain. Something not completely tarnished. Something me.
My fingernail is loose from the boot that crushed it, the skin blackening. Clenching my jaw, I yank on it, biting down on the bright pain that comes in response. I twist and pull until it comes free. And I press the little nail to the ground like a seed just as hands close around my arms and drag me out of hiding. Like a baby bunny pulled from her hovel by hungry snouts born to sniff me out.
And I — what am I? Born to softness? Born to run and hope not to be caught?
Masked faces look upon me, their whistles stop in unison. I tremble, I cannot help it. They open their circle, point their hands, say nothing.
It is the same every time. Every time. I know what they want me to do. And I know I will do it.
I run. And soon after, they chase.
