(I Ran)
And I ran; I’m sure I ran all day, allowing that subjective perception will warp the relative movement of time as the body accelerates toward the speed of light in the grip of madness and fear. I’ve never been a fast runner, but the final, frantic defense mechanism of the organism’s dying soul impelled adrenaline through my veins and in that frantic mode of state, time compressed to seem as one prolonged minute. With my ridiculous plum ball gown hiked up to my hips, I tore through the halls of onyx arches. The high portals of stained glass projected macabre yet somehow exquisite scenes of pain and terror across my path; my pace blurred the colored light in the hall pouring into my eyes. I was running from hell; I could have been running through it—reds and shadows flew by me as flickering flames and my central nervous system pumped hot sweat from my pores, but this was no time for fancy. I was nearing the impassible, imposing front doors of tarnished ornate silver and dense ebony. Dread began to fill my gut, but my feet refused defeat and before I could form a plan of alternative egress, the great portal somehow swung open and I saw freedom through the threshold. I closed my eyes, expecting just another mind-trick I had tried to grow accustomed to, expecting a bashing of pain when I learned the door was yet closed. I was fortunately mistaken. The open doorway was as real as anything in this place could be, and I bolted right out of the mansion.
I vaguely remember dashing through gray and green landscapes, indescribable, chased by the blackest horrors. My legs lost feeling and my breath became sand in my throat and lungs, but my memory would not let my body rest— heart racing faster than my feet could fly; my dress and hair flailed wildly behind me in streams of amethyst and darkness. I could hear on my trail the adumbral beasts of my master, barking and howling at my scent. Their images snarled in my head from memories of so many kennel-passings on my way from the dungeon laboratory. Some were unquestionably canine, though not any breed of Earth, with ears and noses disproportionally long, eyes and teeth eerily too sharp, and fur more like needles. Some were more anthropomorphic; I couldn’t help but think they may once have been like me, yet they were no longer of just one species. They may have been more or less shaped human, but they ran on all fours, sported thick dark coats, some had tails and dog ears, many had fangs and claws. I was sure I’d be out-run and recaptured, probably tortured then forced to resume my strenuous research.
I relive that fateful plunge through the briars into this copse of malignant miracles. Something was tugging at the skirt of my gown, and in a rush of dread I glanced back; the barbs tore quickly through the satin, and what was once a magnificent full petticoat was now shredded entrails drooping from the bodice. With the fabric consumed, the branches’ teeth turned to the flesh of my arms and legs. My will began to drain at the first prick from the thorns, but at first I only noticed the vague foreboding fingering lightly along my spine. I continued to crawl through the briars, however unaware of their intent and grateful of life-saving covering. I could swear I heard the dogs run past, but then what could be that crushing the branches behind me? Am I still not safe? Panic continued to propel me into the dense brush. Before I realized, I was both crying and moaning. The thorns’ infliction crept steadily along my flesh and reached deeper within me than thorns usually go. Blood trickled along my skin and blackish nebulas grew where the red liquid stained the plum satin of my gown. The foreboding in my spine swelled to an electric shiver until finally, my body gave up and I fell limp into the cutting arms of the vines holding me, no longer slave to the adrenaline pulling fight and energy from where they’d gone empty long ago. I ran all day, and I must have slept all night—reliving that fateful plunge through the branches over and over again. I relive it still as the images cycle through my thoughts.
But at several points the cycle breaks; at first I find myself on a mossy carpet with spiraling halos of armed, flowering branches and vines hovering inches above my eye and reaching indefinitely into a lacy nephrite canopy. I am sticky with any number of bodily fluids, and my muscles still twinge from residual charges of shock; I move with the grogginess indicative of having slept a long time. One abrasive, raucous respiration reverberates through my brain’s many levels; I breathed my larynx dry yesterday—at least so I assume from a harsh lump of unswallowable pain in the back of my throat. Three breaths after opening my eyes, my escape flashes across my memory and I shoot up into the fauna in response; the need to continue running foremost in my mind. The piercing thorns grabbing at my face quickly throw me back to the cool, spongy moss where I crumple down and leak a few tears, stinging and salty additions to the numerous dewy droplets already accumulated atop the verdant velvet carpet. I feel I’ve been unconscious for a while, and the silence upon my awakening confirms I’m no longer being chased. Nothing is searching for me, snapping twigs and shuffling foliage, rustling leaves and snagging branches. It is completely silent—this clue to the unusual nature of my new surroundings revitalizes the foreboding pulsating along my back. Still, I know I can’t cower for long; although I already dread the lick of the thorns, I do not want to be found by anything.
I crawl; bracing my strength against the lacerations with eyes squeezed shut yet seeping tears from the raw, red seam between my lids. I try motivating my weary spirit by telling myself I’ll get out soon and it’ll be okay—a trick I learned early in life. In the back of my mind is that voice I am all too familiar with, although never have I actually heard the sound of its words. It reminds me that I don’t know where we are and there’s never a guarantee of survival when I’m in charge. Despite my nagging negativity, I eventually reach a break in the thorns and emerge from under the thick bush into a still, sylvan scene basking in a green aura pulsing through the canopy of broad leaves. For too many hours, I was trapped in the forest’s border of thorns; but it is impossible to tell exactly how much of the day is left. Suddenly I don’t want to be awake in the dark of this place. I decide the best thing to do is fall asleep while I’m somewhat comfortable.
These trees are strange and unnerve me. Although never really much of an arborist, I harbored a healthy respect and interest in trees. I can distinguish basic deciduous and coniferous and could identify a few popular species in my geographic region. These trees defy my shallow pool of knowledge. For instance, the one I rest against—it seems essentially a sort of broad-leaved deciduous. The bark looks—definition and texture-wise—similar to perhaps an oak, but the feel says more of a birch—something young especially despite the size and aura of age. And I distinctly feel that these leaves don’t change color in correspondence of temperature and sunlight.
In the warm embrace of these old oakish roots, I curl up and close my eyes—a broken and weary Atlas resting on the world I had tried to carry; the labyrinthine bark is the network of fissures and faults signifying the subtle tectonic respiration of the planet once within my grasp. Xylem and phloem mirror the transportation of vital chemicals within my body’s veins—two independent systems, separated by distinct and hardly permeable layers of porous skin and bark, synchronize. We are so similar; I feel my closest match in this universe could possibly be the ancient, timeless being cradling me like a fledgling duck in its gentle, unyielding roots. A favonian breeze from above rustles my new keeper’s crown. As the leaves regain equilibrium, the ensuing silence and slow steady breathing of the tree lull my woozy, aching body to sleep.
I dream of running from terrors indescribable and plunging into a dense cloud of piercing pain. I run. I plunge. I crawl. I faint. Again and again. I feel my heart about to surrender to the surge of adrenaline— threatening to sweep my soul away, out of my body—and finally, I am back in the lab.
