Running to be Chased

People run.  People have always run.  Before they made up languages and art and history, people have always been able to run.  And so they do.  Sometimes people run to.  Sometimes they run from.  Sometimes they might not be running in any direction at all because sometimes it doesn’t matter what’s in front of them.

Because some people—people like Joe Solomon—only run to see if anyone will come after them.

He darted through the trees, coming close but never quite hitting any of them.  That is what he was trained to do, after all.  Always see.  Always notice.  Never, ever, get hit.  Sometimes he wished he wasn’t trained.  Sometimes he wished he couldn’t see the rock he was about to trip over or the moss he could have slipped on.  Sometimes he wished he would fall down the goddamn hill and break his neck.  Sometimes he wanted to get hit.

And the world would be a better place for it.

Sometimes he thought about doing it himself.  When the flashbacks took away his nights of sleep, he’d always found himself wandering into the kitchen and opening the silverware drawer.  There wasn’t silverware in there, of course.  The only cutlery they could afford was that of the plastic variety, which usually just sat in the sink waiting for the next wash.  The drawer was where they kept their knives—the throwing kind.  When the nights seemed particularly long, he would pick up his favorite one, then twist it and flip it between his fingers.  He liked watching the light spin off the blade, but sometimes, when it felt like all the light had been sucked out of him, the blade wouldn’t dance.  He would stare at it, imagining what it would feel like against different parts of his body.  The insides of his arms.  The backs of his legs.  Sometimes he even pictured it slicing his cheeks and his neck.

But he could never go through with it, because he couldn’t imagine the cuts without imagining the disgusted look on Matt’s face.  When it came down to it, Matt was his only friend, and Joe was terrified of losing him.  When it came down to it, Joe Solomon was a coward.

Not that it mattered much anymore.  After this morning, he was sure Matt would never want to be near him again.  Maybe now he could finally off himself without all the guilt.

Then again, Joe didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling guilty.  Not even when he was dead.

So he ran.  Because that’s what he always did.  He ran until his legs were on fire and his lungs were begging for air.  He ran through town and across the fields.  He ran through the forest until he reached the shore.  He should have known Matt would be waiting for him.

Neither of them had ever been there before.  Neither of them had seen those trees or felt that sand or even seen the Indian Ocean.  But somehow Matt had known.  Somehow Matt had already been there, waiting.  How his friend always did that, Joe might never know. 

Matt’s feet dangled off the dock, the tips of his shoes skimming the surface of the low tide.  He shot Joe a wide smile and popped a handful of M&Ms into his mouth.  “Hiya, Joseph.”

Joe didn’t answer, mostly because he couldn’t.  If ever there was an agent who embodied awe, it was Matthew Morgan. Joe had used every countersurveillance move he’d ever learned.  He’d flipped and corner cleared, but Matt was waiting for him, cool and collected as if he’d known where Joe would end up even before Joe did.  Maybe he had.  Countersurveillance  is designed to help you lose trained personnel, but Joe couldn’t shake the feeling that the friend in Matt had tracked him down, not the agent.

“You know, I’ve got this friend,” Matt continued, his feet swinging like a goddamn child.  He was picking the green M&Ms out of the bag because—as he frequently insisted—they tasted the best.  “Cool guy.  Little bit of a tool, I’ll admit, but generally fun to be around.”