When I think back to my life, a lot of exciting things had happened in short amount of times, as if film makers were extremely aware of their budget but they still pressed for more stories.
That's how, once, I witnessed a man get killed, ate more kilograms of cotton candy than my weight, got stuck on a ferris wheel and got interrogated by the mafia, all in the span of one and a half hour.
So when I look at my phone and notice that two months and a half had passed with nothing much happening, a chill went down my spine.
Two months and a half.
76 days.
1 824 hours.
109 440 minutes.
6 566 400 seconds passed without anything much happening.
This is a first.
I stare at the stream's flowing water, the realization dawning on me.
"Nothing happened," I whisper to myself, shifting so I'm sitting on my ankles. I feel like the universe's secrets were entrusted to me, twists upon twists of theories having been placed in my head, and I give my hands a blank stare.
The angst that hunts me when things start going too good doesn't even register before my confusion does, and after awhile my heart skips a beat, anxiety clutching it hard.
I blink, fascinated and terrified.
I barely notice the young boy skipping to me, little peepee jumping around until he wraps the towel I put for him on a rock around himself.
I tug the panda beanie down to hide my whole forehead and take a deep breath, calming down without a second thought. I pull the beanie up again.
"What are you worrying about?" Jamaica asks, tying the strings that hold his pants up.
If only I hadn't developed such a conspicuous way that lets people know I'm worrying about something.
I flick his forehead and grab his hand, walking back to camp with him.
About two weeks ago we got tired of Jamaica's whining and went hiking, planning on walking from Georgy to Naha, a town in Rija, since we don't plan on going anywhere near the packs that live there.
A loud groan is heard when we return back to camp, and we see Orla sprawled on the ground while she struggles in Nao's hold.
I learned that it is near impossible to get out of his hold when he's serious, that's why I run away every time one of those gym freaks say that they want to do physical stuff, like sparring or training or running.
Jamaica usually tries to escape too, but he doesn't understand the art of running away.
It's not a marathon, it's a race. And the only way to win it is to consider the first step as the finish line and the last step as the championship.
I drop Jamaica's hand and run, jumping over a root like a boss as I escape from this werewolf-made hell.
Over my dead body will I exercise. I fail as a werewolf – which I give zero fucks about – the only thing I need to know is how to survive and escape from a situation.
My view shifts and everything turns upside down, before a striped shirt comes into view.
"Not this time," Nao says, walking back.
"NOOOOO!" I shout, struggling against him and punching his back to no avail. I reach my hand out to the trees, begging them to save me from this muscle head.
"Why are you so against it?" Orla asks when we return. I grab Nao's shoulder push myself up, getting a peek of her just to glare.
"I don't need this," I say, "I only need to survive." I catch the sight of a stiff Jamaica in front of Orla, standing at attention.
YOU ARE READING
Run Away With Me
Werewolf"Fishy kisses are better than kisses," I say, the words coming out of nowhere, "and like that, two people together are better than marriage." "What are you talking about?" "Nothing really," I sigh, hunching over myself more to trap the warmth, "it'...
