Perion was walking. She had no clear idea of where she was going, but she knew she was getting away, and that was all that mattered to her at the moment. Her pace took her further out of town, but she didn’t look back at all. She couldn’t look back, looking back only forced her to remember what she couldn’t bring herself to think about, much less deal with. Each time a car passed her on the highway, she ducked into the darkness or crouched behind a tree. There was no way she wanted anyone to find her, not yet, not until she stopped the pain. Then, she reasoned, they could do anything they wanted.
Before long, the highway ended and grew into a rural-looking asphalt road. Fewer and fewer cars passed her. Perion picked up her pace, almost running. If anyone had happened upon her, that particular individual would have thought she was taking a late night jog. But that same hypothetical someone would have gotten away from her quickly, because as she jogged, she would laugh for a while, then she would cry.
After some time of the crazed jogging, Perion had to stop. Her side hurt fiercely, as did her cheek and stomach. She collapsed onto a mound of frost-covered grass on the side of a road lined with trees. It was extremely cold that dawn, but she didn’t shiver, she was sweating profusely. Unmindful of the cold biting into her exposed flesh, she gently wiped her face with the tail of her shirt, and began crying into her hands.