Phantasmagoria

1-Dreon

I woke up with a book slapped on my face. I slept again. Damn.

I steal a pickle and wrap myself for a jog. I write a note telling mom I would be out till dinner and post it on the fridge before going out.

The chilly air of February caressed my face as I try to pick up my pace. It is usually our own thoughts that hold us back. I blink. I try to keep my focus on my running, on the soft morning breeze, on the aroma of pancakes and coffee on daybreak cafes, on anything but my own thoughts. I let my feet run at its fastest, ignoring my now wheezing heart.

My body could not keep up and so I almost faint when I came to a sudden stop. What is empty if not a space filled with anything but what you hope for? I hold onto a narrow railing as I try to catch my breath. I feel dizzy and nauseated, but just as my breathing becomes steady, I start running again.

The dialogue of the past and the future is the now. It is the unnerving connection of what had happened before, and of what is yet to come. And yet, I feel that I had always been held captive by the past and the future, never in the present. Never in here. I keep running.

I only stop when I saw Oliver, an old man with a dog. It's funny how people label everyone the way they want them to be and get away with it. Oliver is a balding man whose skin looked almost pink, and whose hair liked to grow on his chin rather than on his head. "'Sup, Ol?" I jogged towards his dog, named Stuffy, a flabby and furry animal whose kind I never knew. "Hey, Stuffy." I squat and tickle the dog's chin as she tries to search for her treats. "Trying to beat Usain again, huh?" Oliver laughs. "If I were you I ain't never gonna exhaust myself that much. Your feet won't never gonna be there with you forever, young man. You better watch yourself."

"I'm fine, Ol. Thanks." I try to smirk and walk past them. "Hey, Ol? I think your hair grows the wrong way." I laugh. But before he could respond, I bolt.

I broke off in front of an old café and sat near the window. I order bread and bacon and coffee for breakfast while trying to dry myself from the cold sweat. I sigh. I pick a timeworn book on the shelf just beside the window and find the page I last read. The Book Thief. I try to soak myself into it, and suddenly everything else disappears into a blur.

Sometimes, I feel like death talks to me the way he talked to Liesel Meminger. Quiet. Gentle. It's as if he's near. I shiver.