Disclaimer: Borrowed characters.
The kid was fast.
No one could deny him that. He ran fast.
He had things to run from.
Whether or not he'd escape those things depended on if he stayed on the oval track, or took to the open road.
He was a sprinter, not long distance, but he could learn.
He was a runner, through and through.
He could train. Work harder than ever before. Gain the ability to run mile after mile, farther and farther away.
The idea appealed to him. Running. Running fast and far. Away.
But he couldn't. Some things were out-runnable. Memories. Nightmares. People.
People. Could he outrun his brothers? No. Did he want to?
His feet on the pavement. Running. Fast.
How about ghosts? Are they out-runnable? Did ghosts even know if someone is running?
The runner sighed. Not a very helpful thing to do when one's breathing depends on a specific continuous rhythm.
But changing the rhythm isn't impossible.
Curving, the runner followed the tar laid out in front of him.
He reached another straightaway. He picked up the pace.
He ran fast. But could he run far?
Surge the turn.
His legs burned and his lungs stung. He wanted a smoke. But he wanted to run more.
He was a runner.
He watched his feet work as if on their own accord.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Another lap took the runner to his last one. One more time around the worn out path.
The runner slowed. Coming to a walk.
He was headed home. To the place that kept the people and the things that didn't run, couldn't run, but were out-runnable.
A few blocks away from his house the runner decided to try it. To run, not in circles but in a straight line.
So he ran. Not quite as fast as on the track, but fast enough to bring his heart up to a steady, soothing thumpthumpthump.
The beats were in time with his feet on the gravel.
The runner was quickly approaching his house.
Unable to decide whether to speed up or slow down, he kept his pace.
Thumpthumppthump.
Over the pounding in his chest, the pounding on the ground, he heard the music.
The sound came from the house he grew up in.
Radio on. Clanking in the kitchen. Roughhousing in the living room.
Almost against his will, the runner slowed, savoring what he heard.
He was now at the walkway.
He paused.
He heard a lamp break.
Silence.
Grumbling and scolding.
Darry.
Apologies. Halfhearted and sheepish and borderline sarcastic.
Two Bit. Soda. Steve.
More grumbling. Then laughter. And the music was back. Louder and off key. Better.
He turned and went up the walk.
The kid was fast. But no one could deny he was smart too.
Besides, everyone gets tired from running eventually.