Word Count: 478
I walk down the lonely road, nothing to keep me company but my own arms wrapped tightly around my torso. They tremble. It’s the cold, must be. Couldn’t be the other thing. The other thing doesn’t exist; it never happened. It’s not real. My breath hitches as I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
I pass a concrete fence so old that white splotches have spread across it, the surface worn away by countless rain showers, exposing the rough pebbles underneath. The wind lifts dead leaves and shoves them across the tarmac. The crinkle and scrape should sound delicate, natural, but it claws at me, and I turn my head away.
I keep walking. That’s all there is. I don’t care where I go, I just have to keep moving. One foot in front of the other. I can’t stop, even if I wanted to, I just can’t. Stopping means thinking. Stopping means remembering, and I can’t do that. I need to exist like an animal. Being human is too hard. So I keep walking.
The deep shush of a distant motorway drifts over the treetops. Lives pass other lives there. Whole stories of love and loss, of connection and isolation, of intimacy and detachment speed past, unaware and uncaring.
A tractor rounds the bend, and I step to the side absentmindedly. The farmer raises a hand in thanks, and I barely register it. It’s not a real greeting. He’s not saying hello, lovely to meet you, how are you doing? He’s saying thanks for getting out of my way, thanks for not inconveniencing me with your presence, thanks for fading into the background. Like I always do. That’s how they made me. Maybe that’s not who I’ve always been, but it’s who I am now. I keep walking.
I pass green things, and my mind clings to them like a lifebuoy. Here is a tree, leaves rustling gently in the wind. There is a patch of grass, overgrown and in need of a cut. There’s a tangled hedge, branches and leaves knotted with vines and thorns. And then I spot a flattened plastic bag, squashed and disintegrating beneath a tree, and my breath catches. It’s been used, abused and thrown away. Nobody wants it, nobody cares. It used to have value, used to be useful, but not anymore. Now it’s falling apart, crumbling into the dirt, alone. My arms tighten around myself, and I keep walking.
A yellow sign framed by manicured birch hedging cuts across the scene. Harsh and glaring, a thinly veiled threat. These premises are protected by security cameras 24 hours. The trembling fades as numbness sets in. My arms fall limply to my side, and I stop walking, stop moving, stop hoping. It’s no surprise, I’ve been here before. They always find me, they always will. There’s no escape.
