Underside

Part 2: Three Escapees - Chapter 5: Rusty Cries

A half-step in insanity’s directions launches me far into the everlasting night of the dark side. Imagine seeing the faces of everyone you’ve done something wrong to, having them taunt you on how cruel and stupid you’d been, tormenting both your dreams and your waking hours. When you try to forget the hatred for you burning in their eyes, it only gets imprinted deeper. 

Eventually I give up the struggle and let the remorse wash over me in powerful, rocking waves. Emotions drain away, and I am left with placid indifference. Indifference to the brightness of the slanting sun through the trees. Indifference to Kivren’s face looming in front of mine.

A jolt, and I’m back from the dreamworld. Steps retracted to solid land and far from the abyss. Kivren’s face stares into mine, and I flinch. Mostly because of the sharp points patterned into his iris, but also because of his close proximity.

“Move! What are you doing!” I gasp once I find my voice.

“I was being an investigator on your inside moments. I saw into the abyss of your mind . . .”

What the heck? 

“Are you psychotic? On drugs?” I ask, feigning worry, then turn my face away. “Don’t be stupid around me, I’ll probably snap your neck . . . or . . . something like that.”

The raven caws and perches in a tree. I’m smiling up at it when I hear him; “That doesn’t scare me, but it might scare your friend Kivren.” replies a deeper voice. This voice radiates power and authority, but also a dangerous warning.

“Who . . .” I say under my breath, sliding my right hand up my sleeve to the retractable knife there. Shifting my head slightly, careful to hide the movement behind the careless wind ruffling my hair, I peripherally see a tall man wearing a short cloak. Kivren is unconscious beneath a tree, a bruise starting to bloom over his high cheekbone. The man beside him has a hood covering his face, but I know who he is. And I now know I have no chance.

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Crashing through the trees

Weakened at the knees

Hair catching on the breeze

Run-leave, fight, die, flee  

The sky is turning red

If I stop I’ll be dead

And deep inside my head

I know there’s still things to be said  

Running from my fate,

Away from all the hate

Bloodthirst they need to sate

I should not make them wait  

Dear life, I lost to you

So one thing I will do

Tell them I’m sorry, too

And that I’ll start anew

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Cold air stings my cheeks and the slight steam from my breath fogs my already blurry vision. One drop of warmth spills near my mouth, but I wipe it away and let no more fall. I waited too long, and I will pay for it when I am slaughtered like livestock. He will catch me, and I will perish. I have not truly escaped, and I never will.   

Regardless, my legs keep pumping and taking me forward, farther and farther from his pressing grasp. No one can surpass my running, but I will eventually tire. Even if I don’t, there is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No reason to continue. In fact, there is nothing at all.  

I could choose to slip back into the enveloping warmth of insanity, but no one is here to pull me out anymore. Not Kivren, not the raven. I can only continue pounding my feet against the sloping ground, hearing myself breathe, feeling the bitterness accumulating around my world, being the nightmares of those I killed. Staying alive.  

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I try to stay positive, but I am soon beaten down by everything around me. Even the sky seems to whisper a question down to my ears,  

“You. To live, or not to live, that is the question.”  

it asks accusingly, partially quoting the Hamlet whom I learned lived a tragic story. But this isn’t a story, this is real.   

Or is it? Is this the real I yearned for last night after being shut down? Is this the real I dreamed of and thought would be forgiving? Is death real? What is the real that we people live in; the fabric of our lives? I do not know, but I don’t care to find out, because for me, real will always be unreal. Real will always be too far to reach.  

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I have no idea where I am.

I have my knives, my two hands, and my wits.

I have to find somebody.

I have no idea where he is.

I have lost faith in who I am, was, and will be.   But I might gain those back . . . if I really want them.

When I stumble upon what looks to be an abandoned camp I quickly enter one of the sturdy tents and collapse on the straw mat. Not because I am tired, but because I need solid proof that I can handle things.  

The inside of the tent screams ‘gypsy’ at me, but I ignore it.  Even if there aren’t supposed to be people outside of the main cities I don’t care. For now the camp is empty, maybe forever, and I can rest here.   Inside my head I analyze how far I’ve run and how many miles away Kandu was from the place where I started running. I’m about sixty miles from the forest, plus maybe two inside the forest. From Kandu to Artignonis now thirteen minutes by our average economy Minijet, so about sixty five miles from one city to the other. The sun is climbing from the east, and I have been traveling northwest. Perfect, I am on course and maybe ten miles from Kandu; it is better than I expected.  

When I hear shoes clomping and voices conversing in a foreign dialect I sneak out of an air flap in the canvas, revived by the knowledge that I am close to Kandu. Looking back I cast a glance at the interior, a faint smile on my face, saying goodbye to the place of refuge with it’s mildewed mat and porcelain bowls. I don’t dare breathe until I’m out of sight, and then I relax, melting into the atmosphere. A slight breeze ruffles my hair, separating the fine silky strands and the sweat that plasters them to my forehead and neck. I extend my face to into the wind and take a deep breath, then a loud caw pierces the air.