Jesse

Memory: 4

………

            I am in a forest. I have never seen it before. It is night. And I am running.

            I don't know where I am running to, or from, but all I know is that I'm running.

            The dank, potent smells of the earth and greenery coil into my nostrils, as pain shoots up my legs pounding against the ground. Leaves, and scraggily branches slap me in the face but I don’t care. I keep running.

            I've got to get out. Can't stay here. Must keep moving. I've got to get out of here. Got to get out. Got to get out. I couldn't get that out of my head.

            Why couldn’t I get that out of my head?

            What the hell is going inside my brain?

            I’m so tired.

            I don’t know how much longer I can keep running. I can feel the sweat running down my face. Drenching my hair. My insides are in knots. And I feel like I’m going to hurl. It’s getting darker. I can barely see anymore.

            Where am I? Where am I? I scream out into the encroaching blackness. I scream at the top of my lungs. I scream so loudly my lungs begin to burn as I gulp for fresh air. The wind hits my face.

            Need to breathe.

            Can't breathe.

            The darkness is closing in.

            Can't see.

            Shit. Shit. Shit.

            I can hear it’s thundering now from above. Rolling. Threatening. Dangerous. Suddenly, there’s a brilliant flash and crackling discharge of lightening so loud it shakes my bones. And for a moment everything is white.

            I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. I blink, swallowing. And it’s then I realize, I’m on the ground curled up. The lightning struck me! That’s why I can’t move. Then there’s the soft patter of something cool and wet against my skin.

            Rain.

            It’s consuming me. Drowning me.

            The sounds of the rain take over: pit pat, pit pat, pit pat, and become something entirely.

            I open my eyes. I'm in my kitchen. And I’m leaning over the sink, staring at the faucet that’s dripping water. I look through the window over the sink, and see it’s storming outside, and the kitchen has become darker than usual. The shadows stretch, lingering before passing like shadows of birds.

            My face is stinging badly, and I lift my hand to feel it as I still clutch the ice pack in my other hand. The bruise hurts still, and I’m just tired. Maybe, if I close my eyes really tightly and imagine as hard as I can, I’ll wake up in a home that’s far from here with a loving family, and a father who doesn’t give his only son a welting bruise on the face just because he felt like doing it.

            My breathing is hankered, and my chest hurts. I’m standing here with no shirt on, just jeans, and no socks. I can hear my heavy breathing, but not just my own anymore. I’m no longer alone.

            “What are you doing boy?”

            I don’t say anything.