Racing Hearts

My head hurts. My arms hurt. My lungs hurt, but it keep running. I could solve a lot of problems if I just let myself stop,but I don't. I keep going, pushing myself to my limit, my legs having gone numb long ago. It keeps my mind numb too,oblivious to the thrashing pain it would be going through if I allowed myself to stop running at top speed.

I'm on track, running is what I do. It's in my blood. When my best friend died I ran for two days straight, right to the boarder of Oregon, where my parents found me having warn myself half to death. So with pictures of Anthony in my mind, I keep running, screaming at myself in my head over and over Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!

I start to cough my heart flutters, and I stumble to the side,cleaning up against a brick wall In The inner city. My brown hair falls somewhat in my face, sucking there to my skin with drops of sweat. I can't tell if my heart is beating too fast, or not fast enough, and I can't bring myself to find out if I really care or not anymore.

I let myself lean back, gazing up at the dark sky, latent with stars and clouds. My phone rings in my pocket, but I don't touch it. That's the ninth, or maybe tenth call- I don't know, I've lost count.

It's my parents, I know it is. They're worried sick, and I'm a terrible son for doing this to them, but I can't help myself. I didn't even bother changing into my track clothes before going. I bolted out of the house in my jeans and flannel, which is drenched in sweat. I look around, realizing how far I've run, and wondering how many people think I was a thief running from a cop.

Fastest their in the wild Wild West.

Bile rose in my throat as I thought of the play our school was putting on, the western theme, and Anthony up on stage with the spot light...

I cried out, smashing my fist against the wall, gritting my teeth. Damn him,damn him! How could he pin this all on me- was it really my fault?! He didn't let me down gently, no, I caught him in the middle of the act--

That morning, the Friday morning before the play, we had rehearsal, and I always went to see Anthony after track. He knew I never missed one theatre meeting, even if I had to run to get there (and I probably would prefer doing so.). When I got to the auditorium though my boyfriend of three months was not on stage, par usual. I asked a couple of other kids, all who greeted me, "hey Joel! Oh, Anthony? He's uh. . ." But would never say more. With every person I asked I became more anxious. Maybe I knew already- I had seen it coming. I was sure I had. Yes, for nearly a month now, Christine, that bitch. . .

I found him behind the stage, by the drop ropes. He had his hands on Christine's hips, her breasts pressed to his chest, and their tongues were doing the tango.

I gaged, stumbling backwards and knocking over a prop table. Both of them looked up, startled, and Anthony's eyes- his beautiful blue eyes- widened when he realized who had been spying. I think he tried to explain himself, I'm not sure, I don't remember. Because I took off. I nearly fell off the stage as I dashed for the door, tears already blurring my vision. I ran across streets, not hearing the horns blaring at me. My feet his the pavement with quick thuds as I dashed down the street, past my neighborhood, and into the midlands between the town and the city. I ran the entire seven miles to the inner city, where I was now, as the sun set behind a line of horizon and the stars twinkled down on a tear and sweat soaked boy.

How could I be so idiotic? I had tricked myself, I realized, into believing that Anthony could do no wrong, that the looks he gave Christine were all purely for the sake of the leading man and the leading lady of the show. The Annie Oakley to his frank butler. . .

I slammed my head against the wall and sobbed, biting my lip again. I ran my hand through my hair and sank to the ground, my back pressed against a wall.

I didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

"Hey, kid. Didn't your mommy ever tell you that the city is dangerous at night?"