Never Let Them Define You

GAINING MOMENTUM | ACT 2 |

Her foot hits the ground, gravel spitting out from under it, and her whole body shakes slightly from the impact. Then again and again, carrying her forward, and making her feel like she's levitating. She's wearing a rich violet headband and beads of sweat are running from her brow, she wipes them away, exhales sharply, and her head falls forward a bit from exhaustion. God, I'm getting tired of doing this every day. She looks around at the rotting buildings, flickering street lights, and homeless people sleeping by the side of the road. At least there's a daily reminder why I'm fighting, so I can end up somewhere better than this.

On her route, she runs through three different neighborhoods; her own first, then the "Ditch District" as it's called, and "Clover Hill" for the last stretch before circling back into her own again. Where I am, where I was, and where I want to be before heading right back to work on making it happen. Fame is just a step in a larger plan, I mean, I'm already relatively famous if you think about it. Most people don't get recognized on the street when they walk around town, so getting recognized in every town is just like the same thing...right? She sets foot on a sidewalk that isn't cracked and sees the dilapidated houses quickly fade behind her.

The broken homes are replaced by well-cared for, if a bit shabby, houses with clean paint jobs and intact windows. As she moves further into the neighborhood, the houses slowly get cleaner, bigger, and look less like they're in an apocalypse. Arched doors, cornices, beveled everything, and marble and granite fill her eyes as she inspects all the houses closely. She stops in front of one that catches her attention, which has venetian red walls and a dark mahogany door with a shiny brass knocker. She looks up at the building, more breathless from it than the running, and squints at the lilac bricks running up the edges of the walls and around the base of the roof.

She looks to the right and sees a "For Sale" sign posted on the edge of the massive lawn. She smiles, then picks up the pace and keeps running, grazing the sign with her fingers as she passes, and throws her arms into the air. She keeps running at a brisk pace, timing her breaths, and shaking herself back to life when she starts to falter. Three more miles, three more miles, three more goddamn-"

"Hey!" yells the most vaguely familiar, gravelly voice.

She stops, squints, and then raises her eyebrows. "You're that guy."

"That guy?"

"I'm saying I remember you from when I socked you in the jaw."

He laughs, coughs, and approaches her slowly.

"Woah, hey, I will do it again, you degenerate." She starts running again.

"I got something for you."

She keeps running, then stops again, and looks back slowly. "If you say 'my penis-'"

"No, no, no, I'm serious; it's a business opportunity."

"What? The business of recycling cans?"

"That's incredibly insulting...no, no, it's perfect for an artist like you; I want to make a mural."

"First of all, how is that a business opportunity? Secondly, I don't paint."

"You should, it heals the soul."

"Not sure I have a soul, to be honest."

"What? You're so lively, how could you say that?"

"I don't know, I just feel like I'm leading a life of exploitation."

"Wow, strong words."

"Well, every day I wake up and think, 'what is this all coming to?' You know I grew up poor, I was even homeless for a few months, but my mom knew how to keep us on our feet. My dad was off drinking, but even that doesn't defeat this feeling, this idea that I've risen up through taking money just to confuse people. He would come home most nights, rambling about the most incoherent and disagreeable nonsense and if we didn't say something along the lines of, 'You're right, George, the world is against you,' then he would-" she stops herself, then continues, "I don't even know what I'm trying to say or why I'm talking to you."

"I might."

"Okay, then why are we talking, whatever your name is?"

"It's Phil." He chuckles and scratches the back of his head. "I used to be an artist, well, I guess I still am, but I don't really have time anymore. I was the most passionate, riled-up piece of shit you'd ever seen with a torn-up beanie on. No one could tell me what to do, how to do it, and I fought people over my work. Starting doing graffiti, then I got noticed by a couple suits and they got me into a studio, and that just took everything out of it for me. I used it a lot, but every time I was there, it just didn't feel right, like it wasn't who I was. I think you're talking to me, thinking 'how do I not end up like that?'"

"Huh, yeah, I think you're right...no offense, by the way."

"None taken, I mean, I fucked it all up, and the funny part is I knew I was fucking it up. If I could go back, I don't think I would, I think I'd just ruin it again, but I don't see you like that. You're..." He sways his hands up and down rhythmically, in a way that resembles waves moving forward. "Powerful."

She looks up at the sky, noticing a long scraggly cloud stretching through the sky like a chinese dragon with something bubbling under its skin. The cloud looks like it's exploding inside, while remaining intact on the outside. She holds up her hand and looks at the surface of her skin erupting with goosebumps, then rubs them and shivers. "I have to go."