The Morning Run
Written, Edited, and Illustrated by R.L. Bales
© 2023 R. L. Bales. All rights reserved.
The Morning Run
“I like the sound my shoes make on the rough concrete. It echoes in the early morning stillness. I keep my breath steady as I exhale through my nostrils. That helps me focus.
My jogging route is habitual; I run the same way every other day, three times a week. How could I have predicted that today would be any different?
The view from the Lightning Bay bridge, a well-known spot for swimming, fishing, and other water activities, is stunning.
I enjoy going over it during my morning run. The morning is always quiet, and I like to observe nature before it gets overpowered by ruckus.
The bridge had just come into view on my horizon when I saw a black car aggressively pull out of the bay parking lot and speed off North. I didn’t get a good look as I was still pretty far away.
Furthermore, Officer, I don’t know the make; I’m more of a book club kind of girl.
As I reached the bridge, I was hit with an odd and unexpected odor.
The air smelled of fresh blood and a lot of it. Honestly, the aroma was so thick I could taste the iron on my tongue.
I glanced around, looking for roadkill. Since I didn’t see anything on the sidewalk, I walked down into the ditch to find the source of the pungent scent.
I expected to find a deer, a raccoon, or even a cat. Instead, I peeked through the thick brush and saw Zoey Murdock’s lifeless eyes peering back at me.
That’s it.
Can I go now?” I exhaled deeply.
A tall, muscular man in a police uniform sits emotionless in front of me. His jaw is strong, I would perhaps be interested if it wasn’t for his ghastly dull personality and lack of delicate femininity.
The busy and constant scratching on paper made my skin curl.
I just want to escape; confronting a corpse and a cop this morning was not on my to-do list. This place is bright and uncomfortable, this chair is hard, and I feel like I haven’t eaten in seven hours. My palms are sweating, and my gut aches.
I told my story so many times, it became a broken record for me and I feel utterly exhausted. Socializing isn’t something I participate in regularly.
“Yeah, you can go, but if you remember anything else, call us.” The cop’s untrusting demeanor demanded attention.
I’ve never been happier to leave.
The walk home is nothing short of a memory, ghosting me as if it were a tiresome, old lover.
My apartment is cozy with just the right amount of mess. It’s a one-bedroom loft that sits above a working lighthouse.
My Aunt Ann is the lighthouse keeper but is getting older. After I dropped out of school and didn’t know what to do, I moved here and got a job at Ben’s Pages, a used bookstore in town.
I’ve been here ever since. I like it, and it’s where I’m most relaxed.
My phone dings as I’m shoving leftover spaghetti in my mouth and contemplating my entire existence.
“I know you had a tough day today, but I need you to cover tomorrow’s shift. Thanks, kiddo!” I read Ben’s text in his Jersey accent.
Unexpectedly, tears begin to stream down and drop into my tomato sauce. My fork slips from my fingertips and lands on the floor. I’m not used to sudden outbursts of emotion. It’s unlike me. I cover my face and sob.
Zoey’s blank stare burned an imprint on the inside of my eyelids.
