I shiver.
"That's weird," I think. I shiver again. It's usually too hot to shiver, even in November. It's too hot to shiver when you're running every day from hell.
I shiver again as I duck behind a trash bin in the dirty alley two blocks from school. They haven't found me today, not yet.
"It's only a matter of time," I think, my teeth beginning to chatter. Every day I run from my brother's gang, and every day they find me.
"I am a sprinter," I tell myself, trying to find an excuse. "I am. I am the star of the track team, I hold ninth in state for the one hundred meter dash." That's not bad for a freshman. "Sprinters can't sprint forever. That's why they're sprinters." Sprinters will always eventually be caught when running long distance, running the mile from school to the shabby apartment my brother and I call home. At least I always am.
A crash sounds from behind me, and I spin around. It's just a dog knocking over some crates. I let out my breath. I didn't realize I'd been holding it. It's not my brother's gang.
I half-groan quietly.
My brother. If only he knew. If he knew that they did this to me he would rip their innards out. I know he would, if only he knew.
Of course he doesn't know. They say every day that they'll kill me if I tell, and I don't doubt them. So I don't tell my brother.
I glance at my green wristwatch. 4:44. I've escaped them for a good part of the day.
"It won't last," I remind myself forcefully. "It'll be worse for you if you don't hand yourself in soon."
I look at my watch again. The glowing face tells me it's the seventeenth of the month. My fifteenth birthday.
"That'll make it four years to the day," I mutter, turning my head over my left shoulder, checking that I am still alone in the alley. The dog is gone now, I notice. If I need to escape, I'll have to jump over the crates he knocked over. I continue to stare at the crates. "Every single day since I turned eleven." I make a face. "That's disgusting."
"What's disgusting?"
I jump and spin around, only to find that I missed them heading in from the front. I scramble to my feet. I turn to flee, but the biggest of my brother's gang steps forward and takes a swipe at me. His blow hits me in the face. I fall to the ground.
He takes another step forward, but I'm too quick for him. I'm back on my feet, sprinting the back way out of the alley. I clear the crates without any problems. I hear them roar behind me as they trip over each other.
"But," I remind myself, "I'm a sprinter, and I can't sprint forever." They're all faster than I am when it comes to long distances, and when I've been running all day beforehand. The apartment my brother and I share is a good mile from my hiding spot. That's long distance enough.
I have a 7:32 mile, and I'm at a steady third fastest on the team for the mile, behind a 7:07 and a 5:53. But I'm slow today. I don't feel good, I'm tired, and one of the boys is the 7:07 mile.
My feet pound on the cement. I look down at my shoes. They have lime green stripes on the side. I saved my money from working at Walgreen's forever to get them. Pay at Walgreen's sucks. But I did get my shoes. They're my prized possession. But I'm not a three year old, and I know that it's not the shoes that make you any faster, only you. I still love my shoes.
I stumble, and I curse the shoes, and then remind myself it was my fault, not theirs. I keep running. It starts to rain. I curse the rain. Then I curse my brother for getting an apartment on the fifth floor. Five flights of steps seem like a lot.
I get to the apartment just ahead of them. I turn the knob. It's locked. He's not home.
I scramble for the key in my jeans pocket. I shove it in the lock.
By the time I let myself in, they're there, too, and they pile into the tiny apartment behind me.
The biggest grabs my wrist and pulls me into my room. It's green. The whole place is green. I love green, and I find it comforting.
He pulls the green door shut and he fumbles with the lock as I try to make myself as small as possible in the space between my bed and the wall. This isn't a hard feat, considering a stand at five foot two and weigh in at exactly one hundred and a half pounds.
I don't manage to make myself invisible, though. I never do.
He yanks me to him and presses his lips to mine. I believe he is trying to suffocate me. The buffoon pulls away and rids the two of us of our clothes, seeing as I refuse to do that for myself.
Tears well up in my eyes as he plunges into me. I feel like a baby. It always makes me cry. I'm too small to fight him (or any of them, really), and it's just not fair.
My brother would flip if he knew his boys (his right hand man in particular) were doing this to me.
I'm fairly certain my eyes have rolled back into my head because all I can see is black, not a trace of green. It's smothering me, but I know I'm still conscious because I can feel his body on mine, smell the sweat pouring down his face, taste the nicotine on his breath, hear his shallow breathing.
A door slams in the distance. A jingling of car keys as they are set on their hook.
"Hey, fellas," I hear my brother say to the four boys who are undoubtedly clustered on the couch watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns.
I'm going insane. He doesn't know. My brother doesn't know what's happening to me in the next room. He probably thinks I'm still at school, at track practice. In this weather? Fat chance.
I consider it. Is their anything to consider?
"No," I think. "Not really." I imagine my brother's face when he'll break down my door and run into my room. I imagine his eyebrows colliding in the middle of his face, his mouth opening in surprise and horror. I imagine his single blue eye snapping in fury.
"I need to see that," I think. And so I scream.
"Blink!"
Fin.