Billy Straight

25

Runningrunning running notbreathing,

No looking back.

Trees jumping in front of me, trying to grab me, change direction.

Tear through the branches, they tear back, my face, my arms, my legs, all on fire.

I want to close my eyes, hurl myself through space, a missile. I try and it's good, but then I fall and roll, hitting rocks and branches and sharp things, hurting my head, opening up a hot wet cut on my arm.

It keeps bleeding. I can feel it dripping down, but it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts; am I made of clay? Of shit?

Don't know where I'm going, don't care, just out of there, the park was a traitor.

Now I can breathe.

I can hear it in my ears, fuzzy, big bursts of fuzz that fill up my head, in air, out air, fuzz air, my chest hurts.

No more Places. Nothing's safe… my heart's beating too hard, too fast, suddenly I have to throw up.

I stop, bend over, it shoots out of me like lava, all over the ground, burning my throat.

When will I have a clean life?

No more, empty now, have to be quiet, have to be quiet.

I am quiet.

Everything's quiet.

I taste and smell like something dead.

I run some more, fall get up, run, walk, start to feel better and stop to breathe, but then I start shaking and can't stop.

I'm in a part of the park that I've maybe seen before, but I'm not sure.

Lots of trees, leaves all over the ground, rocks and dirt, could be anywhere in the park. I lie down and hug myself. My throat is still on fire, my teeth start knocking against each other dadadadadadadada.

It stops. I want to sit up, but so tired. The ground is bumpy. I find a rock, a smooth, cold one, hold it in both hands, squeeze hard, then I throw it away and take a deep breath.

The bleeding cut has dried into this purple line with wet spots and gold-colored stuff leaking out. Probably plasma. It helps you clot.

I start to hurt all over and find all the other cuts and marks, on my arms, my face. I scratch, raise some bloody spots, watch them clot too.

My body's working.

A bird cry makes me jump and my heart shoots up into my throat and I feel like vomiting again.

Breathe, breathe, breathe… now I'm dizzy.

Breathe. Listen to the birds, they're just birds.

Okay. I'm okay.

Time to start moving again.

Finally, the night comes.

I'm on a high spot, almost a hill, nothing to see but trees and behind them the huge black shadows of real mountains.

Still in the park, but not for long. Traitor.

I've got nothing now, my books, my clothes, my plastic bags, my food, it's all back at Five.

All the Tampax money. Except what's left of the five dollars I took to the zoo. I reach down in my pocket and feel three bills and some change.

How did all this happen? How did they know to go for me?

The park was their place, too.

My fault. Stupid thinking I could relax.

Nice and dark now. Darkness covers me, time to move, again.

I walk till I hear cars. Still can't see them, but I must be getting closer to Los Feliz Boulevard. I keep rubbing the hand that held the shit against rocks and dirt and tree trunks and after a while there's no more stink. The cars are really loud now and it is Los Feliz and I know where I am.

Hiding myself behind a thick tree, I think about what to do and she comes into my head.

The one who got chucked.

Why do I keep meeting evil, gross, sick people?

Is there some message I wear on my face like this kid is a loser; he should get messed up? Do I look weak, wimpy, something to be hunted down?

Am I giving off some kind of sign I can't see, the way you can't tickle yourself?

Do I need to be different?

One thing's for sure: I need to be clean.

And gone.