The Three Laws of Motion

By Tleiaxu

1. Every object in motion will remain in motion unless compelled to change by an external force. (And an object at rest will remain at rest.)

1.1 Ballad for the Summer’s End

Mark was a runner. So when things fell apart, like he knew they would, he felt the energy rise inside him. It was time to go. It was more than time to go.

The apartment was stuffy with silence that built, filling with anticipation like the moments before an orchestra begins, and the conductor raises his baton, all the elbows high and lungs filled with air. The thud of Mark’s heart amplified. He could almost hear it echo off the corners of his room.

“I’m leaving, Mom,” He shouted, his voice high and tenuous, even though she couldn’t possibly hear him in her drug-induced delirium. His voice cracked. “Goodbye.”

Mark threw energy bars, worn out clothes, shampoo in last year’s backpack. He tucked his deep brown-red curls into a crumpled baseball cap and pulled on his battered black hoodie. He frowned; his pointed chin and big eyes grew steady. Time for the symphony to begin. And he was off.

Mark’s floppy rubber soles hit the complex’s paint-chipped staircase; he picked up pace. They slapped into late October sunlight, against cement, over muddy remnants of grass, splashed in a dirty rain gutter, and gripped asphalt. He picked up the pace again. All he could do, all he wanted to do, was run.

Besides playing the piano (he played it hard and mean, but he played it well), running was what he did best. So he ran around the corner to the busy Pizza Hut intersection of Myrtle and Watt, over the chain-link I-80 over-pass, and kept on going. Fifteen years old, he was light and full of angry energy. In his head, he heard the orchestra crashing huge complex chords, the volume rising as he ran faster. Even the violins, the graceful, lonely violin strings snapped, screeched, splintered, creating such a tremulous noise in his head that he found himself gasping for release, but it was his feet that kept the tempo, and he could not slow down.

He wasn’t planning to stop, wasn’t planning anything. It was time to go, not time to stop. Time to move on and keep on moving. He didn’t care where he ended up, as long as it wasn’t there. There, the place that was no longer his home, because he made a decision, and he wouldn’t take it back. Not this time. The world passed him by in a blur.

20 miles and 100 minutes after Mark began, he found himself thoroughly and satisfyingly lost. The sun was an hour from the horizon when he regained his senses.

Where did I end up? Light beat down on his sweaty shoulders and he slowed to a walk, tilting his pointed chin toward the warmth. He’d ran so fast for so long that the rubber of his scrappy shoes burned the bottom of his feet. He looked out over the horizon where there were many trees dappling the earth, taller than the buildings which peeked through here and there. A river ran by in the distance. Beautiful…he thought, and all the anger that had filled him before was replaced with something more sensitive. Despite the row of post-rush-hour cars, the view still made his heart sore with that unnamable feeling.

Mark walked onward. A bridge stretched out across the river ahead with a row of yellow lights dappling on over the water, curving with two long arches that reflected neatly in the river. The music in Mark’s head slowed and dwindled here and there, with curious little pops from the piano and a nice mellow trumpet solo. He crossed the street, heading for a dirt trail that led toward the bridge.

Water hummed peacefully by, undisturbed by the traffic. A brown frog plopped on the water’s edge, eying Mark warily before plopping onward. And all around were the blissful sounds of bugs and animals, held in a sort of warm cradle by the low-hanging October sky.

Mark sighed and wiped his forehead with an already sweat-soaked sleeve. His stomach growled at him, but he ignored it. This will be a good place to stop tonight.

He could see from here that the underbelly of the small bridge was complex – cement and wood were woven together to create a shadowy labyrinth. Deep in where the ground raised in a high ledge to meet the bridge, it was so shadowy he couldn’t see a thing. He sighed and pushed his wandering thoughts away from his mother, away from that nasty guy who sold her drugs and fought with Mark over it. Not my problem anymore, he reminded himself, though his cheek and lip still burned from their last heated run-in.

Tired and ready to rest, Mark didn’t notice a shadow move against the bright green contrast of light filtering through leaves. He just pushed them aside and kept walking down the little dirt trail next to the river. Mark hardly even noticed as sad, pure notes drifted intoxicatingly through the air. He thought the sound was coming from his own imagination. But the sound grew louder as he stepped closer to the bridge, he had to slow down and look.

Someone’s here.

He drew his breath in and stepped into a shadow, peering through the maze of under workings. There, leaning against a rafter on the other side, was the silhouette of a wispy-haired, lean young man whose eyes were closed. His fingers darted over the holes of a long wooden flute, and the sweetest song came out that Mark found himself leaning against a block of cool cement fifty yards away, just to listen.

This is like some sort of fairy tale.

Complete with pale yellow butterflies, darting over the babbling water, in and out of the shade. The music wound to a reluctant halt.

“Hi.”

Mark jumped. “Oh! I didn’t mean to make you stop.”

The young man looked up at him with searching blue eyes. Locks of blonde hair fell gently over his eyes and behind his ears. Mark’s heart gave a little squeeze, what a beautiful person.

The young man shrugged, the eyes still searching, searching in the shadows of Mark’s hat and hood for a better glimpse of his face. “It’s not my bridge, you can do what you want. Do you want to come listen?”

Mark nodded and slipped his backpack from his shoulders, stepping gingerly through the sandy dirt and around the angled beams of wood. He sat carefully next to the blonde young man, maybe a few years older than Mark himself, whose face seemed so vivid and fresh. Mark winced as his bony rear hit the ground. Though he tried to hide it, his shoulders tensed with pain and he gave himself away.

“Whoa, are you okay, kid?”

Again, Mark nodded as he drew up his knees as a chin rest. Running like that made his muscles stiff and stringy. After 20 hard miles, they were shutting down almost completely. He could feel eyes on him, but he looked out over the swift water. He didn’t want to look at a beautiful face, and it haunted him, the way that boy looked at him. Like he was something to look at with his swollen cheekbone and puffed, bloody lip. They were both full of raw brokenness and sad energy, and they both knew it. There was no need for such a stare, Mark thought. But just the same, those intense eyes searched him, even as the melody picked up and poured out over the river. Mark closed his own eyes, his heart so thick with tiredness and torn-off tendrils of home-thoughts that he could probably wring it out and still have enough angst left for the both of them.

Why did you have to start the heroin again, mom? Why do you have to make love for it to such losers? And the worst part was, he couldn’t save her. She’d pleaded with him to be patient for three years now – the old explanations and excuses that seemed so loving and sincere at first… And the men, the constant string of leechy, bloodsucking grease-mongers. Mark could feel his trust tangibly weaken over the years, and finally, after all he’d put up with, for some reason, it just snapped. So here he was.

The music painted a portrait of Mark’s feelings, a small comfort. It drifted and waned, danced and weaved, but always sweetly sad, a perfect song for the end of summer.Goodbye, summer. I hope you’ll stay a little longer and keep it warm a few nights, so I can sleep under this bridge in peace.

The song drifted to a close and there was a long, wizened silence. It was so quiet that Mark felt a sudden loss and opened his eyes. Did I fall asleep? Did he leave? But sure as the cement floor beneath them, the young man’s voice piped in.

“I’m Blake. Are you a freshman up here?”

Mark, clueless that he meant the college just 200 yards away over the levee, just shook his head, mumbling his name into his knees.

“Hmm?”

“I’m Mark,” He lifted his head and finally dared to look back at Blake. Even his profile was so attractive that it made Mark’s heart clench again, and he had to look away. Such sad, probing eyes on something so beautiful were hard for him to look at. So even though he wanted to, he didn’t look at Blake again. “I’m a sophomore in high school.”

“Oh! Well then, you’re just a baby. How old are you? Fifteen?”

Mark nodded. Just a baby? But it was a tender thing to say, and it made him smile just a little. “You don’t look much older.”

“I’m not, really. I’m only 19. But I feel worlds away from high school. I’ve been in college two years, but here I am, still a freshman. I’m utterly sick of school.”

Mark picked up a round, white little pebble and threw it out to the river. “I like school. But that’s probably just ‘cause—” Because it’s not home… He caught himself, not wanting to say more.

“Just ‘cause why?”

“Because I’m good at math.” He was telling part of the truth at least.

“Ah. Well, I’m starving. So I’m gonna get going, kiddo. It was nice to meet you.”

Mark didn’t answer, just stared off towards the water. A colder evening breeze swept over the water and Mark crossed his arms over his knees, pulling them in close.

Blake felt a little sad and knew he should say something else. “I have a car… I could give you a ride home if you want. Do you live around here?”

Mark shook his head.

“Oh… Well, what brings you down to this dump, then?”

Mark shrugged. “I’ve gotta lay low a while, so I’m camping out.” He threw a sideways glance at Blake. Man, look at his face, I should have lied. “But, hey, don’t worry. It’s warm out still, looks like it’ll be a clear night. Not a big deal. And this isn’t a dump, it’s nice.” He threw another pebble. Blake put a hand on his hip.

“No way. You can’t mean you want to sleep out here? Because, uh-uh, bums get drunk under this bridge. Look, there’s one right there.”

Mark followed Blake’s finger to a shadowed baggy shape tucked way up on a little ledge of cement. It moved. Mark jolted in surprise.

“Hah! I didn’t see him.”

“And all the stoners from the dorms get high out here. They get loud and fuck around on the levee till maybe 2 am if you’re lucky. You’ll never sleep.”

“Eh, I don’t care. If I can’t sleep, I’ll just pick up and find somewhere else. You know how it goes.” Mark wasn’t a stranger to sleeping outdoors. It grew on him after a while, and he was used to the ups and downs. Blake, apparently, wasn’t. The eyes. They were searching him again. Mark was glad for the cover of his jacket. He was nothing to look at, not like that.

“Why don’t you come with me, up to the cafeteria, for dinner? We can talk it over. My roommate is cool. We could help you out a little.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, really. Come on, are you hungry?”

“Sort of.” He was starving.

“Okay, come on then.” Blake smiled kindly. “I’m glad I met you.”

The smile was so warm that Mark in his depravity took it in, letting it nestle in the middle of his chest. The sunlight against the back of Blake’s head, with that face, made him look exactly like an angel.

Mark couldn’t even speak. He just smiled weakly to himself, stood on shaky legs and slipped his backpack over his shoulders. He didn’t have the energy for more. But it was nice… it was nice to meet Blake too.