3 a.m.
Go. Go. Go.
I’m running down the street. Bare feet. Aching body. Ripped dress. It’s dark.
The kind of dark that’s only found at 3 a.m.
Behind me, my attacker’s shoes scrape against the cracked sidewalk. In the distance, a dog barks. Moonlight bleeds through tattered clouds. Street lights sputter. Neglected houses crumble like ancient tombstones in a forsaken graveyard.
My chest heaves. My heart pounds. My muscles strain. Run. Run. Run.
Shit. I’m slowing down. My lungs struggle to draw in air and my legs feel like melting gelatin. I don’t have a destination. Away. I want to get away. An abandoned park appears on my right. I veer into it. Beyond the vandalized playground is a city forest. Maybe enough to hide in. Climb a tree. Hide in brush. Don’t know. Don’t know.
Blood streaks my face. Mixes with cold sweat and hot tears. My feet protest the rocks and sticks hidden in the tall grass. I ignore the pain. I focus on the tree line.
I’m almost there.
Safety. Survival. Just a few more steps. Go. Go. Go.
He catches me around the waist. We both go down. Agony explodes through every nerve ending as my wounded body is crushed into the hard, cold ground. I smell dank earth. Wet grass. Copper blood. Crickets chirp. Wind rustles dead leaves. His breath rasps in my ear. “You can’t escape, sweetheart.”
He rolls off me and I claw toward the trees. He grabs my ankles and flips me onto my back. He straddles my waist. Rage contorts his features. He’s a monster. How could I believe he ever loved me? How could I let mistaken gratitude rule the heart he eviscerated with lies and betrayal?
His fist swings toward my face. Crack. Pain shatters my jaw. Then I fall into the dark.
The kind of dark that’s only found at 3 a.m.
The immediacy of the short sentences heighten the desperation to escape and the tension in the chase. It is always satisfying to end a piece by circling back to the beginning. Masterful job of writing, Michele.
Yikes. That was tense stuff. Great job, Michele. - Jim