Go Ahead and Run

To any and all who may find themselves reading this, I feel obligated to inform you that the events which I am about to disclose to you are true in their entirety. Do with that information as you wish, it matters not to me.
To begin my tale, I arrived home from work late one evening feeling especially energetic, as often I do after sitting such long hours in a cramped cubicle. As such, I found within my mind the desire to walk about my neighborhood for a good long while, and so I decided to exactly that. Stripping myself of my tight, constrictive formal wear, I donned a simple pair of black jeans and a loose fitting hooded sweatshirt of the same colorless color. I slipped into a pair of comfortable sandals and out the door I went.
I welcomed the cool night breeze as it graced my cheeks and so gently chilled my skin. The moon was bright and full overhead, a promising student of the sun if ever one existed. Its light was as welcoming as the breeze, dimly illuminating the concrete walk beneath me as slowly I treaded over it, nearly tripping on a ledge here, getting a wad of chewing gum caught on my shoe there. The sloppy, unseemly state of the walk perfectly complimented the long-barren trees and the plastic bags hanging so stubbornly to their branches. Our neighborhood was not a tidy one, not by far, nor was it a pleasant one. Nevertheless, it was the neighborhood that had always been my home, and I have never seen any reason enough to pull me away.
Content with my musing over the polluted trees and disorderly sidewalk, I shifted my focus to a scene on a driveway a ways ahead of me. A small child was pedaling round in circles around her smiling father on her bike, laughing gleefully at this most minuscule amusement. Children are infallibly remarkable in that way: they consistently manage to find the greatest joy in the smallest nothings.
I myself found quite a bit of amusement in seeing such a happy father and daughter. The father, however, upon seeing me slowly walking toward their drive, hastily scooped his daughter into one arm and her bike into the other, and then hurriedly hauled the both of them into their garage, the door slowly grinding shut behind them.
Sighing, I continued and soon passed their house, the curtains of which had been drawn shut. Why was it that he felt the need to run? I had caused them no harm, had I?
I shook my head. Meditating on such trivial things rarely brings about good; that was one of the principle sayings on which my mother had raised me. And so I forced a smile and continued my walk, once again finding comfort in the cool breeze and the pleasant moonlight.
Coming to a corner, I stopped and waited for a car, the driver of which had his eyes glued to my countenance as he passed. Once he had gone, I crossed the street at my same leisurely pace and then resumed my stroll along the walk. Heading towards me here was a young woman pushing a stroller slowly along. She was smiling in a way that plucked at my heart strings most pleasantly as her baby giggled and gargled in its seat. It waved a rattle gaily, and the mother gently plucked it away and began teasing the child with it, causing another fit of joyful giggling.
The mother then, as she was approaching me, lifted her eyes to meet mine. Like a wisp in torchlight, her smile vanished in an instant. Scarcely checking the street, she turned her stroller into the grass and ran it down the curb, straight across the street to the walk on the opposite side. Looking back at me briefly, she quickly snapped her head back forward and then resumed her walk. Now slightly annoyed, I likewise resumed my own.
At this point I would like to impart unto my reader that this sort of occurrence was not an uncommon one. Whether I was walking down the street or sitting patiently in my car, passersby always seemed to find some level of discomfort with my presence. I have long ago given up eating out at restaurants, as the glares and fearful comments I receive frighten me more than I believe I could ever frighten anyone else. To this day I am yet unsure whether it is my appearance, my stature, my manner of dress, or what have you, that may cause such a disturbance. I know not the cause of their fear, only the obvious existence of it.
To return to the story at hand, I at length found myself approaching the local park. In one of the many soccer fields scattered about the premises, three young teenagers were casually kicking a ball back and forth between each other. I smiled to myself, glad to see youths enjoying the night in such a healthy way.
Reaching the end of the walk, I waited for a couple passing cars before crossing to the path on the other side. The path looped pleasantly around the park, and it was always the first route I took whenever I might have been in need of a stroll.
As I passed alongside the soccer fields, I looked across to the three teenagers. They had stepped up the caliber of their game considerably, and were now much further apart from each other.
As such, one of them ended up miscalculating the power of their kick considerably, sending the ball careening into the road a good ways ahead of me. The one who had kicked it laughed in awkward apology before running to retrieve it, then brought it back and resumed the game. I laughed quietly at this. I knew all too well the struggle of being the less coordinated of a group, as such I had been throughout my childhood. Keeping in tune with my former self, the same teen again miscalculated, this time catapulting the ball directly in front of me. He laughed awkwardly once again, but then his gaze went to where the ball had gone. He looked upon me with wide eyes, then turned to his friends, apparently saying something to them. Both of them then turned to look at me with the same terrified gaze, and the three of them turned back and headed off the field and away from the park, disappearing down a branching street.
This awakened in me no small amount of discontent. As I have said, I am no stranger to such reactions. But the act of being so callous as to abandon a possession because of my mere presence was altogether infuriating to me! Am I somehow less human than they?
Now in a huff, my agitation quickened my pace. I sped along the path, now scarcely paying attention to the breeze or the moonlight or the God-forsaken trash bags caught in the dying trees. Every puddle that wetted my sock, every was of gum that clung to my shoe now added to my rage until I am quite sure I could have blown flames from my nostrils.
It was at this moment of utmost annoyance and anger that I saw a woman of modest age approaching me slowly on the path. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, thinking to myself that this woman was going to be the exact same as every other person whom I had passed that night. She's going to pivot and run, I thought. With one look at my somehow abhorrent appearance, she will turn on a pin and flee.
And that is exactly what she did. Upon seeing me, her eyes widened momentarily and she headed in the opposite direction, her walk turning to a jog.
But by the moment I had had quite enough. My feet quickened until I was at her back, and a hand clamped onto her wrist, wrenching her around to face me. Her face was now twisted into a countenance of pure fear, her eyelids drawn back, her lips parted, a scream apparently caught in her throat.
Ignoring her irritating fear, I clamped my free hand over her mouth and held her to my chest so that I was looking down at her, into her wild, panicked eyes.
"What reason have you to run?" I asked her, anger apparent in my voice. "Have I not the same eyes as you, the same mouth, the same limbs, the same organs, the same blood? I am no different from you in but the smallest ways yet you flee in terror!"
She began clawing at my arm, trying in vain to escape my grasp. I began laughing hysterically as I continued. "All I ask, my dear, is that if you are going to run, you must at least have reason! Please, oh please tell me that you have some good reason for fearing me! Perhaps I was in a nightmare of yours, or perhaps you have seen someone of my likeness once holding your father at gunpoint! I beg of you, give me some reason as to your fear of me!"
My fingers lifted only slightly from her mouth to allow for a response. I waited patiently, smiling wildly at her in anticipation, but none came. My smile remained as my voice dropped low. "Well then," I said to her, "allow me to give you reason."
My fingers returned to her mouth just before her screams came with vigor. Reaching into my pocket briefly, I took out the pocket tool that I always carried with me. I have always found there is no greater than being the one person with a pocket tool to offer in case of a stubborn package or stray thread. I flipped open the knife and gently ran my thumb along it. Not the sharpest, but certainly sharp enough.
Her eyes were now shut tight as she fought ferociously against my hold. I struggle to admit that even I had some difficulty holding her. But hold her I did, and I slowly brought my knife to her shoulder, conveniently exposed by the sleeveless top she was wearing. I quickly drew the knife across her skin, a deep gash issuing forth as she screamed and thrash.
Smiling all the while, I continued in this manner, cutting deep into her arm again and again as I traveled down its length, careful not to be so rude as to leave what would be a fatal wound. By the time I had reached her hand and decorated it with tiny cuts, I was satisfied.
My pocket tool returned to its home, as I grinned at my work, losing myself for a moment in the way the blood ran down her tattered arm. Her tears had wetted the hand that held her mouth, so I sought to wrap things up.
Keeping my same smile glued to my face, I grasped her cheeks and looked into her eyes. "Ah," I said to her, "now isn't this much better? Now, when you run, you will have reason to. After all, isn't there nothing more irritating than action without motive? And, my dear..."
I brought my face close hers, our noses nearly touching. "All who you tell will, in time, have reason to run."
With this, I let her go. She fell to the ground and gazed at me in awestruck horror, then turned and ran as fast as she could, holding her blood-soaked arm.
As I at first said, dear reader, all I have said to you is entirely true. It is up to you what you choose to do with it. All I care is that, when next you see me walking in leisurely repose down the moonlit street, you too will have reason to run.
And run you shall.