Fiction

Run - 7

Looking into the mirror I barely recognize myself. New blue eyes, blonde hair and clothes. I pull my new passport and ID out of my pocket to make sure everything's right. My eyes scan over the mess I've made in the small airplane bathroom Hair-dye stains the counter space, and various contact cases are scattered all over the place. I shove my old clothes back into the duffel bag and clean up as much of the mess as I can. With my hair stuffed into a beanie, and sunglasses pushed over my face I finally unlock the door. To be met with a long line of angry people.

"Took you long enough." A woman, with a terrible shade of lipstick on may I add, scoffs as she pushes me out of the doorway and rushes inside, then slamming the door shut.

Exhausted I flop back down in my seat. I haven't been able to sleep the entire flight from Sydney. Being close to landing in L.A, I now believe I have lost my mind. I can't stop worrying. Even though I've been running almost my whole life I can't shake this scared feeling. Constantly being paranoid that someone after you, is on the same plane. And you can't do anything about it. For how often I fly, I'm still scared to death almost every time.

I nervously pull at the ends of my tattered cutoffs and glance around every so often. Restless and not being able to stop my leg from shaking, I decide to occupy myself with the task of 'double-checking' I have everything for the sixth time. Multiple phones, cards, wads of cash and ID's later I come to the same conclusion as I did an hour ago. Everything's there. With all the constant changing, sometimes I don't even know who I am anymore.

~

Sweaty palms clutch the faux passport, which I'm praying all immigration officers will buy. Filing out of the plane I practice my accent in my head and push my sunglasses on my face.

I drag my tired self slowly to the feared immigration desks and randomly choose a line, hoping that it's the slowest one. Immigration is one of the most hated processes among people like me, and like the ones I left behind. The officers are trained to catch 'criminals' on the run, again like me. Trained to detect lies and phony papers. Even people, who have been on the run for years, fear this process. No matter how old or young, tough or weak you are. No matter how much they deny it, there will always be somewhere, deep down where fear is present.

Knowing the routine, I throw the hood off the top of my head and shove the beanie and aviators in my bag. Not wanting to enhance the suspicious aura I already give off. Hair dye staining my hands and red-rimmed eyes from struggling with contacts. I've been taught well though, doing what I know should end up with me on the other side, no questions asked.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a window and surprisingly I look almost normal. Composed and calm, just like how I've practiced. The contrast between how I look and what's going on in my mind is unimaginable. Thoughts of getting caught, deported, arrested, found, killed race through my mind at a thousand miles a minute. While my expression stays neutral, with exhaustion written across my features. The line moves, as do I. Getting closer and closer to the desk. Closer to a new life here, a good one I hope. I pray that this new identity, new start, treats me well.

~

Hands pressed against the porcelain sink, looking into the mirror. Sweat in a thin layer on my skin from nervousness and the climate change. Lightheaded but levelheaded. I know what to do, and I know what to look out for.

Gathering composure and the little I brought with me from the other side of the world, and mask everything I'm feeling, and thinking once again. It's funny how much you notice, when you're actually trying to. I'd never noticed more about one place than before. Where the person standing next to me flew in from, where the nearest exit is, and the fact that the creepy guy across the arrivals hall keeps messing with something in his jacket pocket.

Shaking my head I head for the exit. The second I step out the doors, I see him. My 'connection' I guess you could call it. The only person I knew in L.A as of now. Even though I despised him for what he did to me, he's all I've got. Leaning against his black Mercedes smoking a cigarette looking too normal for someone that knows how to fight better than anyone I've ever known.

"Well don't you look like quite the L.A girl." He smirks once I slide into the passenger seat.

"That's the point Damian." I mumble, avoiding all eye contact.

"How've you been love? Long time no see." He asks, revving the engine and speeding down the road.

"Don't try to get sweet with me. I still hate you." I snap at him.

"Excuse me for trying to be polite and civil Ellie. Or is that even your name anymore?" He fires back obviously not surprised with my reaction.

I was never good with awkward silences, well; it was probably more tense than awkward. Filled with unresolved problems, and unfinished conversations. He promised me he'd be back. But nothing. Trust must be earned, it wont be given, especially not to him.