She runs everyday. No exceptions. She runs if it is sunny, she runs if it is cold. Even if it rains, or there is a storm she runs. She needs to.
Today, the skies are overcast. A heavy mantle of wispy grey clouds sits atop the threshold of the sky. Even the horizon is dark, lit occasionally by the distant flash of lightning.
Inside, she goes through the same routine. She dresses swiftly. Her clothing is old, but comfortable. A pair of jogging pants, a little worn, but still soft and smooth on the inside. They whisper softly against her skin with each step that she takes. Next comes the faded sports shirt, not too loose, but nicely fitted. Her socks are old, ratty things, once white but now an odd shade of grey.
Only her shoes are different. They are the latest kind. In them her feet are cushioned, massaged, allowed to breathe. But that's not why she bought them. They are white all over, except for the green symbol on the side. It is abrupt and jagged. It looks like emerald lightning.
On her way out she grabs her keys, tucks them in one pocket and pauses just outside the door. She turns her face to the clouds, and blinks as a drop of water, a small, trivial thing, swirls down from the sky and onto her face. Without a word, she reaches up, wipes the moisture across her cheeks, across her lips, breathes in deep. She smells it, the thick, musty aroma of rain. She starts to run.
Her path is a long one, but the beginning is often the hardest. At the start, before her legs go numb, before her eyes began to water, and she can barely see the road ahead, it hurts. She crosses the road, long legs pumping hard, and tries to ignore the looks that come her way.
Crazy girl, a commuter with an umbrella thinks, just waiting for the rain to really start, she'll catch her death of cold.
Another, more sympathetic person, a housewife, with a bag of shopping in one hand wonders why she's running, why she's running with that look on her face. It is a look that says a thousand things, and nothing all at the same time. It is the look of someone running away.
The rain begins to come down, thick, heavy drops that splatter like so much clear paint on the pavement. It comes down harder, faster, until the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the street is a staccato that turns from a whisper to a roar. And still she runs.
The pain has faded now, the legs, strong as they are, have gone numb. The world fades in and out of existence. A memory comes, they always do when she runs, and she blinks the moisture from her eyes, unsure if the tears belong to her or the clouds.
She remembers another time, another place. The skies were clear then, a pale blue, just shy of azure, with only a few, softly shifting white clouds. She was running then, running away from a thousand tonnes of burning metal, screaming through the sky. Her innocence, her youth, gone, their passage marked by a pile of twisted metal, and scorched earth.
She returns to the present, to a street overrun by miniature rivers, their swift, erratic flow capturing the detritus of an entire city and sweeping it all into the gutter. A hill rises up in the distance, a tall, sloping mass of unforgiving concrete, as grey as the sky above it. She runs.
Another step, another deep, shuddering breath, another memory. She's running away again, running away from the whispers that follow her everywhere she goes. They say she's too tall, too rough, too violent, too much like a boy. She runs and runs and runs, runs till her breath won't come and she crouches by the road, so close to exhaustion that its almost like dying, but it would be a sweet death, for no matter where she runs, or how fast, the voices are still there. They always will be.
She is at the base of the hill now, and it looms above her. For a moment she is tempted to turn around, to give up, and she nearly does. Then in the distance the thunder comes, the booming, blessed thunder. It rolls down from the sky, and rumbles along the street, raging, roaring, shaking the windows, urging her on. She keeps on running.
Through the haze of pain, as the edges of her vision begin to go black, she sees a boy. He is not particularly attractive, but he is not without his charm. She loved him once, or thought she did. She knows better now. She loved an image, a dream of a man who wouldn't care if she was stronger, faster, tougher. She loved a ghost.
Each step is pure pain now, each breath a labour in itself, but still she keeps running. She can't stop, she won't.
Other faces now, other times, her friends, her enemies, her life. She sees them smiling, scowling, screaming laughing and each image, each sound, each memory fills her, drives her, pushes her on.
At last the storm, the real storm, has reached her. It catches her halfway up the hill. The rain sweeps down, brushing everything aside, drenching her hair, her clothes, her soul. Still she runs, and she is close, so very close to the top of the hill.
The pain is overwhelming now. Each wave starts in her feet, rustles up her leg and rattles up her spine. But through the haze of tiredness, through the cramps that flutter through her limbs, her eyes, twin emeralds, never lose their fire.
Each step, each breath, each movement, each desperate gasping effort is accompanied by a memory. She thinks of short blue hair, and bright blue eyes, and a soft shy smile. She imagines long raven locks, and brooding violet eyes. She sees long blonde hair and baby blue eyes, and a white cat with a smirk. And then she dreams, she dreams of a girl as gentle as the wind, but strong as the sea, she dreams of the girl who didn't care that she was rougher, or stronger, or anything else, she dreams of her first real, friend.
She blinks, she is at the top of the hill. She jumps.
For a moment, for a long, endless, deliriously beautiful moment, she is free. The world is beneath her, and the distant clouds, the towers of swirling grey that rise like floating mountains in the sky, are right beside her.
For a moment she isn't running, she is flying. And as she finally begins to fall, as gravity finally catches her, there is a flash. Lightning splits the sky so close to her that every cell in her body, every iota of her being is shaking with the power of it all.
This is why she runs, even if it is raining. Because right here, right now, she isn't wet, she isn't tired, she isn't hurting, she's in the midst of a storm and it is wonderful. She's up there, with the clouds, with the lightning, with the rain.
Riding the thunder.
Author's Notes
Yay! I'll be honest, this one is probably one of my favourite, which is a bit of a surprise, because of all the Inners I've never felt as comfortable with Jupiter's character as the others. She's strong, after all, how else could she have kept on going after her parents died in a plane crash? But at the same time she's very vulnerable. She's always chasing boys, and is surprisingly sensitive when her femininity is questioned. As I said, I've not ever been that at ease with her character, but still, it's a lovely character. I only wish she got more screen / page time.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again : tell me what you think? Love it, hate it? Drop me a line. Remember, feedback makes the world go round….
MoonPrincess : Glad to have entertained, it's always nice when someone likes what I do. I do try my best to get into the Senshi's skin… although hopefully I never get stuck there ;;.
Cerii-chan : Thanks for the review! I've actually read some of your work, and I really do like what I see. As for your comments, I'll definitely keep those in mind, especially since I have something else planned… muhahahaha.
Airlady : I like you, concise and to the point. Look forward to seeing more of you.
Armaggedonangel : I'm sorry if I made you sad, but I just think that there is an air of sadness about the senshi sometimes. It's hard to see, sometimes, but I think it's there. And as for them not having children… heh… give science a couple of years… ;;;, gomen for my silliness.
