The Run-In

Trauma

TRIGGER WARNING⚠️
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Ludington, Michigan—

A young woman strolls the beachside in a scalloped bikini top and denim shorts. Her golden tresses hang down her back and brush against her waist, the curls swaying in the light breeze. Her flip-flops blow miniature clouds of pale sand into the air with each snap of her feet.

The woman sighs; the sky is a cornflower blue, the sand is soft and warm between her toes, and the cool spray of the ocean is refreshing.

She trots happily over to the glittering water and sinks her feet into the wet, compact sand. The tide laps at her feet lazily, the gentle breeze a salty kiss on her face. The ghost of a smile traces her lips; she could stay here forever.

The woman walks over to an unoccupied lounge chair and lays her towel over the top of it. She adjusts the large umbrella that's staked into the ground so that it casts a shadow over the chair, blocking all of the sun's rays. She then lies down on the chair and rests her eyes.

No one will mind, she says to herself. I'll only be here for a couple of minutes before I head home.

The sound of the crashing waves lulls her into a peaceful slumber.

•

The woman wakes up to silence— or perhaps that's what woke her up. The constant sound of the waves against the shore is nonexistent, as is the squeals of children and chatter of adults. She peeks open one eye and is greeted with darkness. Startled, she jerks upright, clutching onto her beach towel.

She then stares at the full moon hanging above the ocean like gigantic quarter. It's mesmerizing, the sheer magnificence of it reflecting brightly against the water.

She suddenly shudders with chills— right, it's the middle of the night! She jumps up from the lounge chair and starts her trek back home. Luckily enough, her parents aren't in town that night, so they won't know she isn't home yet.

Her flip-flops suddenly strike pavement, the snapping sound contrasting greatly against the soft squelch of them against wet sand. She continues snapping her flip-flops loudly as she walks home at a snail's pace, entranced in thought. She remains deep in thought until a figure emerges in her peripheral vision. Unconsciousness now shattered, she sighs and ignores the person.

This is going to be a long walk.

She starts to lose consciousness again when the figure suddenly grows closer and closer. Still unaffected, the woman huffs in exasperation and strikes her flip-flops even harder against the sidewalk.

That's when things went to Hell.

"Excuse me?" cries out a deep voice from behind her— a man's voice. The woman doesn't slow her pace, her heart-rate increasing slightly.

"Excuse me!"  The man starts to jog when she doesn't turn around. Her adrenaline kicks in, pumping fear into her veins— something isn't right. She starts into a sprint as the man gains speed. She isn't the best runner, but her adrenaline should make her faster. The man easily gains a couple feet on her, dramatically shortening their distance. Still the woman pushes on, forcing her legs to pump harder.

She sprints as fast as she can down the long sidewalk, her flip-flips smacking loudly against the concrete. The man runs so silently behind her that she almost turns around to make sure he's there, or that she she's not running from a ghost. But the few loud breaths escaping her pursuer's lips let her know that yes, he's most definitely there.