He runs these days. He used to be a runner, but now he just runs. There used to be times and distances judged, splits and training schedules, sprints and jogs, hill runs and road, beach and track. Proper shorts, and a singlet, and good shoes bought from a specialist store, designed to protect and cushion, nurture and give on impact – not too much. Just enough to help him bounce back and keep going.
It's hot today.
Sweat pours into his eyes and he can hardly see, a dirty arm wipes across his brow and smears grime across his skin, his breath comes in heaving
sobs
gasps. The boots blister his feet, hell, blistered them five miles ago but he doesn't give a fuck. It's humid
when did it get so cold?
and the air is full of moisture, it weighs on his lungs and tightens them, fills them, drowns them. But he's been drowning for a long time now and this is just another day in the life of someone who runs.
The track curves right and disappears into the trees but he does what he always does and just keeps right on going, off into the undergrowth, jumping over logs and fighting through every patch of brambles and nettles, stings raising welts, skin getting scratched off and a latticework of cuts tattooing his skin. But not forever, they close over on the top and no one can see, and cloth covers the ones that were made by more than just running. They're alright though because they healed
stitches and iodine and the stink of the hospital and the machines that beep with the nurses that smile
and he kept going, just like he's doing now, but the blood is running down his legs and
no one can see
it's alright because they'll close over and he knows it and so does everyone else.
He breaks through the first lot of undergrowth and there's a field to the next one, the next forest, the next track, the next fight through the bushes. And his legs slam into the ground that's so hard because it never rains and he can feel the skin being grated off his heel as he runs
peel peel every time I land another layer comes off and if I do this long enough I'll be down to the bone and if I keep going even then there'll be nothing left to run on
but that's alright because there's tough leather over the top and
no one can see
that protects almost everything, right? These are Army boots, built to last, they won't ever fall apart because they're
trained
made that way.
Maybe there's someone calling his name in the distance, he thought he might have heard someone scream. Probably just an animal though, maybe lost, maybe in pain
maybe both
or maybe it's the owner searching for it, calling it back home where it'll be warm and safe
except needles can't yell
and the door can be closed, keeping the rest of the world away while the fire burns brightly in the kitchen hearth. Or maybe neither of those things, maybe it was just the scream of one animal to each other, issuing its
mating call
challenge, calling one out to fight and stand up for itself. Perhaps the animal would answer, throw out a scream into the dark, black void and hope that it was heard because
no one ever hears
the way its been trained, there's always someone to fight and when that one's beaten, there's always one more, and another, and another, until you reach the one that actually fights back and tears lumps out of the flesh
Ramon
until you see the opportunity to go for the jugular and even then they might still have the energy to make a last stand and get one last fight.
He crashes back into the forest with a yell and there's the track only he's going too fast to steer himself onto it and instead he just crosses it and keeps right on running because that's what
drug runners
runners do, they run until they can't breathe anymore. And he can't breathe, the air is being crushed out of his lungs as he fights his way through streams and round trees and leaping bushes and trying not to trip on the
needles
traps that the hunters set because they'll send him head first into the dirt and he might not have enough
unmarked skin
energy left to hold himself together long enough to keep going and get out of this, he might find himself wallowing and then slipping and if the dark should come and he's still there
it's always night
he might find himself lost
always lost
and with no chance to find his way
because no one sees and no one hears and the forest goes on forever
home. And
this hurts and soon there'll be nothing left
in the distance
there'll be the sound of a gunshot and it'll fill the ears with
way up ahead, he can see the track and there is a
blood and he'll taste it and the lungs will start to fill and he'll know that he's drowning, just like he is now because it's hot and there's no breath left and he's running for his life because he's a drug
runner
and the cops are behind him and he can hear the dogs and the shouts and someone's been shot and up ahead the animal waits because he's going to make it this time, he wont get left behind and Ramon is there and he'll be taken to that kitchen and then it'll be night and there'll be needles and it'll be warm and there's a trap and the night falls and tears lumps from the flesh
and it's wearing shorts, and a singlet and good shoes bought from a specialist store, designed to protect and cushion, nurture and give on impact – not too much. Just enough to help him bounce back and keep going.