When I was four, I ran from my mother, who chased me with outstretched hands in the hopes of convincing me to take a bath. What I found unappealing about the frothy suds and warm water, I don’t know. Perhaps I thought I had better things to do. Perhaps I had an appointment with my dolls that I simply could not miss. I don’t know, and I doubt I ever will.
When I was nine, I ran from my brother. He was thirteen and chasing me around our front yard, hand outstretched to tag me in whatever childish game we were playing. I laughed as I tripped over my own feet and into the plush grass, knees turning green. I don’t know how I was so carefree while my parents were fighting within the house. I don’t know how I managed to drown out their yelling. I’ve never managed to do it again.
When I was fifteen, I ran from responsibility. I think I hoped that if I just ignored it, everything would melt away. So I ignored it, drowning everything in loud music and cheap beer. I don’t know how I managed to get through those days. Sometimes I wonder if I really did.
I am twenty, and I’m running from the law. Really running, my feet pounding on the pavement in an effort to get away from the gaping maw of the beast that is the police. I don’t know how I got myself into this, and I don’t know how I’ll get myself out. But I have practice, I remind myself. I’ve been running my whole life, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.
I don’t even know what this is so have fun with that