Running to Nothing

Chapter 1

No, I don't. I don't have everything. I haven't been clean for two weeks, and I've been sick for three. I woke up on the ground. Again. Lately, the illusion of a bed, even a simple cot is harder to keep as a solid image for the whole time I sleep - something that isn't guaranteed nowadays. I think I'm becoming weak due to a lack of food and proper sleep.

For one fleeting moment, I think of returning home, then feel the burn of scars on my back and wince. Never again. The teeth-gritting pain of scars that never healed properly has also been harder not to feel lately. I sigh, and wrap my arms around myself again, rocking my body back and forth. With nothing else to do, I wind my scarf around my neck, zip up the plush jacket I stole from my father, shoulder the only things I own and start walking.

Where to? I'm not sure. I've been wandering for ages. Seven months and three days. Sometime during those months, I turned seventeen. Once upon a time I would have had a lavish party, cake and presents and a shiny dress. Now, I wear the same six shirts every day, rotating them out when I can, an oversized coat and the same, old boots every day. I eat what I can find or steal from military stores. The last present I got was a silver necklace from my mother along with a plea to run. And run I did, walking when I had to. It's a miracle I haven't crossed the same place twice, as I have neither a map nor a compass.

Before I start walking, I braid my hair back and secure it with a small strip of an old bandage. I haven't worn my hair down since my first fateful week of running. I knew nothing, making stupid mistakes like throwing away bandages or creating illusions of lavish beds - wasting precious energy.

Sometimes I walk at night, melting into the darkness, my greatest friend. Sometimes I walk in the day, passing through cities hurridley. Whenever I pass through a city, I'm cautious around soldiers. I don't think they could recognise me from an old photo - something about being on the run has changed me. Nothing concrete, just in the way my face fits together. Of course, it's been three months since I've looked in a mirror, so I can't really be sure. All I know is that I have long brown hair and skin the colour of sand I find in my boots.

I finish my braid and tuck it into the collar of my coat, then wrap a scarf around my neck, pulling the excess fabric over my head like a makeshift hood. When I first ran, I saw a few pictures of me in the closest city. I hid under my scarf and passed through the city as quickly as I could.

Today I walk at night.

Walking is pretty uneventful. There was not much to do, no one to talk to except myself. I talk about how cold it is or how hot it gets. Rambling on to the only person available to listen. The last time I talked to anyone other than myself was when I'd stopped in a city and snuck into a shower house. After I'd taken a shower, I'd stolen a package of food when I came across a girl not too much younger than me. She was shivering in a ditch, and by the looks of it, homeless - something not uncommon in these large cities. I always wonder why they aren't registered factory workers. She was shivering against a scrap of tin, dressed in many thin layers, and blood-streaked across her arm. I shouldn't have, but I bent down and gave her the meal package. Her eyes were full of so much sorrow, it pained me just to look at her. I wasn't ready to leave her stranded like that, with nothing more than a medium meal package. First, I pushed the illusion of heat into my hands, then cleaned the cut on her arm. Using one of my last clean bandages, I wrapped up the wound. I had clothes that did not fit - I was going to trade them for a compass, but I helped her into another shirt, no thicker than the one she wore, but slightly less torn, and a pair of military trousers that I had stolen from a base, accidentally grabbing the wrong size. I helped her brush and braid her hair. Neither one of us said anything the whole time. After I finished, she whispered one word: thanks.

I left feeling disappointed I couldn't have done more.

The ground is cold and hard, and my worn boots are beginning to feel the pressure of carrying me. Another day, another human necessity I must forgo. Thinking of all the rich government officials with hot water and boots they probably throw out after each wear fills me with anger, and I try to push the heat to the surface of my skin in a last-ditch effort to keep myself warm. Maybe I could die out here and nobody would know. I could die out here, my body would freeze over and they'd never find it. My skin could crack, my eyes would fill up with snowflakes and my bones freeze into iron bars. The Reestablishment doesn't come out here much, which while useful for allowing me to travel in the open air, can make it harder to find their food stores, as there are far fewer. I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts, consumed by my delusions, I don't hear the tank approaching me. I don't see the small lights they've allowed themselves to turn on. I don't notice anything until the tank is right up in my face, the smell of something punctuates my nostrils and I feel the cold metal on the meagre pieces of bare skin.