Running

I wrapped a napkin around my bitter coffee, which I didn’t really like the taste of, and took a gentle sip. I didn’t drink it for the taste, I don’t think anyone does. It had also got to the point where the caffeine had no effect - I think the warmth of routine, and also of the coffee, gave me some sense of familiarity.

It was a wet day in the city. But right now, I was under the cover of a coffee shop branded umbrella, and the rain was not my problem. I unzipped my bag to pull out a book and heard the door to the coffee shop open, which I dismissed because it’s a coffee shop. People come in. People go out.

I continued kicking my feet up, and slowly tried to glance at who had just walked in because I’m nosy like that. The glare of the repressed sun shines on the window, and after subtly wiggling around on my chair so I can see inside, I catch a clear glance at who has just entered, and my heart drops like a brick in the air. Screw the coffee. I swipe up my rucksack and stand straight up. There’s no time to waste. I hop over the stupid fence that coffee shops cover in advertisements and branding and take off down the street. No doubt they’ve seen me do this. I must go as fast as I can. The severity of the situation sets in.

Pouring rain. My clothes soaked. My legs are full of lactic acid. No decisions. Just instinct. My feet slammed on cold concrete. Repetitively. Like a rhythm, like my heart. I didn’t dare look behind me. That could waste precious seconds. I didn’t have that time. I didn’t have any time.

My lungs felt like they were going to give out. I turned corner after corner, but it didn’t matter. That rapid thud of footsteps behind me seemed to never falter, never slow down, it was mechanical. I pushed past anyone in my way, I knew they weren’t the target. I was. It might well have been painted on my back because the footsteps never lost sight of me. I ducked, dodged, and dove into and over fences, walls, gaps, and alleyways, it didn’t matter. I must’ve been running for a mile now. No, two. Perhaps even three. Adrenaline was my new blood. A sharp pain now sliced at my lungs. I could only endure it - I had no other choice.

I reach the bridge, on the cusp of 9th Street. There’s a sharp turn onto it. I sprint past, checking the mirror.

They’re still behind me.

I cross diagonally across the road. Cars honk, screech, and stop. Hopefully, someone hits them. I slid over a car bonnet. Take a run up, and then leap over the railing. Dive straight into the water. It’s only a 15 foot or so drop. I dived in high school anyway. Noise drowns out. Hopefully I won’t. I do know they won’t follow me here. I resurface, and breathe a full, panting, exhausted breath, of both relief and necessity. Treading water, I glance up at the bridge, and see them there, a solemn look on their face. I smirk back, but deep down I know it was way too fucking close. I blow my whistle and bask in my victory, taking in the view. The rocky shore, the busy bridge, glowing with headlights, and the illuminated sky, polluted with the sins of the city. Conveniently, this is when the cold water shocks me like a taser, and suddenly I’m panting for breath once more. I furiously blow my whistle again, because this is taking way too long. I hear the engine start-up, and sure enough, the dinghy sheepishly comes out from behind one of the pillars holding up that godforsaken bridge. I yell to the pilot, irritated.

“What are you doing? Sleeping on the job Terry?”

I’m not sure he heard what he said, but he seems to have a guilty look on his face. I figure he’s kind of in control of my life right now, so I reckon I shouldn’t dig into him too hard.

He throws me the rope ladder, and although I can hardly feel my fingers (or move them), I manage to haul my 27-year-old rotting body up into the pathetic excuse for a boat, dripping with ice cold water. He revs up the engine and we splash off into the metaphorical distance. I look back, feeling victorious.

They’re still there. Standing stoically. I don’t think they’ve moved an inch.

“Scary.” I mutter.