Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Running. She's running again. She always seems to be running.
It's a wonder that in all the years she's spent on the run she's never actually moved forward. Staying in one place but constantly in motion. Almost like someone on a treadmill. But even more bland. The mental image produced by this combination of words is one of warm, pink flesh and thick, steamy sweat.
Her life has been anything but that.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Her ears are filled with the echoes of two pair of feet, of earth being tamped. And the odd splash.
Not the same old run.
This time things are livened up a bit. Gushing blood tends to add spice to any event. It's been the seasoning of too many of her days, however, and she finds the taste has become lackluster.
She imagines how to make blood more exciting. How to make it mean something again. Perhaps if it were his.
Perhaps.
The blood drips from her shoulder and rolls down her bare arm, darkening the skin along its path. Just beyond the wrist the trail forks and the crimson drops begin to tangle with her fingers, tracing a web-like pattern.
It does have some aesthetic value, she muses. Maybe in her next life she will be an artist. Her paintings will be variations on rivers of red. Modern art. No one will understand it… not even her. But her soul will one day speak freely though paint.
In this life it speaks through blood.
He pulls her forward out of her reverie and into the awaiting vehicle. It's an old black van. Of course, it's black.
Black or red.
Nothing is white.
…
He's on the other side of the door. She knows it. That's where he was when she left, and that's where he will be when she comes back.
She just can't bring herself to do it.
Her hand rests on the doorknob, and though her mind is telling the muscles to turn it – nothing happens.
Mentally she battles with herself. She knows she should just go in. She'll have to go in eventually.
Her fingers twitch with indecision. She can't help but listen as the flesh of her fingertips rattles against the cool metal knob.
She wills them to stop before he hears.
Just a few more minutes of peace before all hell breaks loose.
Inhale.
Rattle.
Exhale.
Rattle.
She silences her fingers the only way she knows how.
Gripping the handle firmly, she twists the knob and pushes herself into the room.
As her eyes look up from her hand and into the room her feet suddenly cease to move. The unexpected halting of movement throws her balance and she grasps the handle more tightly in an attempt to steady herself.
For a year and a half she has walked this room, lived this room – breathed this room. Never has it smelled this sweet.
Her eyes are swollen with the soft amber glow of candlelight, and her skin quickly warms to accompany the color.
A red tablecloth separates their old worn table and the feast set before her.
He uncorks a bottle of merlot and begins to pour.
As she watches the red liquid bubble and gurgle, the smell of the food fades away and her senses begin to dull. Soon her world consists only of the sound of rippling liquid as it fills up her glass.
And suddenly she can't breathe.
…
His hands aren't the hands of a doctor, but they will suffice.
As he threads the needle through her broken flesh she thinks of the many ways this man had touched her.
His hands have brought her comfort in a time of loneliness. Pleasure in a world of pain. And now with the same simple motion used to patch a piece of fabric, his hands were mending her wound. Attempting once more to put the shattered pieces back in their rightful order.
Stitching her body together as her mind slowly unraveled.
She just hoped the adhesive would hold.
Here they were, five and a half years later, and finally on the verge of something real.
It was as if she had passed away that night amongst the flames. But her soul, unable to escape, was left bound to the earth. Stuck in some hellish limbo until her task is complete.
Soon.
Soon she will finish what she has started. She will release the indestructible grip fate has locked on her mortal coil.
This broken, battered, bruised, torn, useless piece of flesh.
In her mind she pictures flesh without bones. It's an image rarely conjured. Typically, the bones are left fleshless - and rightly so. They're capable of standing on their own. But isolated flesh. Skin without skeleton or muscle or soul – it isn't right. It's illogical. Inconceivable.
It's her.
…
"Are you sure you're alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine… just a little lightheaded."
He brushes the strands of hair from her face and places a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Good. Then come over here and have that glass of wine while I reheat the food."
He walks to the kitchen and turns on the oven before heading to the table to retrieve the plates.
She makes no effort to remove herself from bed.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
She nods halfheartedly before managing to speak.
"Thank you for tonight."
"You're welcome. Now why don't you come in here and enjoy it."
She wishes she could go and join him, to experience this romantic surprise she's dreamed about for years. But there are other things weighing too heavily.
Seeing her intention of staying where she lay, he abandons the plates and returns to her side.
"Something's wrong."
"…I suppose."
"What can I do? I'm here for you… you know that. Please, just tell me."
She looks into his eyes. She is searching for something… strength, guidance, support… answers…
"Will we be alright?"
He picks up her hand and places it in his, squeezing with a reassuring pressure.
"We've got each other, don't we?"
"Yes, but we've always had that."
"So what's changed?"
"It's not just us."
"I'm not sure I…"
She tore her eyes from his.
"I'm pregnant."