Author's Note:This is just a short story that I entered into a writing challenge following the theme of "lost." Constructive criticism is welcome and I absolutely love reviews. )
The heated, sizzling tar beneath me is burning the arches of my feet even through the soles of my sneakers.
Nothing beats running. There's nothing better than hearing only the sound of an occasional breeze blowing across the large fields of flowers and the impact of my shoes on the ground.
The longer I run, it feeds this addiction that I have. I feel light-headed and my body floats as the lack of oxygen to my brain increases. I guess this is why they call it a runner's high.
The more disconnected from the rest of the world I become, the less I hear my mother screaming and my brother crying, and the scraping of flying furniture legs along the waxed, but now splintering wooden floor panels. The lactose boiling in my muscles distracts me from the lingering feeling of my father's fingers around my thighs. The heavy, thick air leaving my lungs defeats these grey, oval shapes that cover my aching neck.
The sun is beating on my forehead and causing the sweat to drip down through my brows and lashes, into my eyes. I do not wipe it away--I keep my arms close by my sides; I blink rarely, enjoying my unwavering tunnel vision. The movement pangs my stomach and I am thirsty despite this plastic bottle of water sloshing against my hip. But I don't seem to mind at all.
I don't know where I am and I don't know where I'm going. I hardly understand what I'm running from.
The only thing I'm sure of is that being lost out here, in the middle of nowhere, is sure as hell better than being trapped in a battlefield called home.