It was nine o’clock at night and the first shoes I could find were a pair of sneakers and I shoved my feet into them without socks and ran down the stairs, flinging the door open and not bothering to close it. It was my very unsophisticated, very literal version of running away. I ran and ran and ran. There was no slow warm up. There was no pace or purpose. There was only away.
I don’t even know how far I made it that night, probably not very, before I was gasping and my lungs ached and my stomach convulsed and I puked right where I was standing. And it was awesome. It was cathartic and constructive and destructive and perfect. Then I sat on the ground and cried—the ugly kind of crying where you keep sucking breaths in all at once and it makes that horrible sound as the air scrapes against your throat. Then I got up and went home.
I ran every night after that. I learned to control myself and to warm up and to pace myself, but I always ended up pushing too far, running too hard, running too long. My therapist told my parents it was healthy. Maybe not the vomiting so much, but the running in general. It was a healthy outlet. My parents love the word healthy.
My dad tried to come with me a couple of times. He tried, he did. But I wouldn’t hold back for him and he couldn’t keep up. I don’t think pushing himself to the point of heaving was as appealing for him as it was for me. The only reason I ran was to drain every ounce of energy out of myself so that there was nothing left to use for regret or fear or remembering. It takes much more to drain me now. I run longer every day. It’s gotten harder to achieve the body-draining fatigue that I love, because if I’m going to run, I want to feel like I’ve been wrung out and spun dry, but it still does the trick. It’s the only therapy I get now.
My lungs feel okay but my stomach is teetering. I’ve been out of commission for a little while lately, so hopefully, I can tap myself out easily tonight. With every step, I stomp out the shit in my head until it’s all but gone. It will come back in the daylight, when I’m replenished enough to think, but for now it’s away and for now that’s enough. My thoughts drift off with the last vestiges of my energy and adrenaline, leaving me with the all too familiar feeling of nausea I’ve come to know well. I slow to a jog, and then a walk, trying to lull my stomach into submission, but it’s not working.
My feet stop, giving me a minute to scan the street for a gutter or well-placed hedge to throw up in, and for the first time since I bolted through the door, I take note of my surroundings. I haven’t been on this street before. I’m not sure how far I’ve run, but it’s unfamiliar. It’s late. Most of the houses are dark now and I try to slow my already rapid breathing. I bolt for the nearest hedge to heave into. I miscalculate the distance and end up running straight into it. Thorns. Of course. Insult to injury. The thorns slash my legs every time I move but I’m too busy puking to extricate them just yet. When my stomach has been thoroughly emptied, I lift my legs out as carefully as possible, trying to minimize the damage, but it’s already been done. I can see blood just beginning to seep through the torn skin on my calves but it’s the least of my worries right now. I close my eyes, then lift them open again. I force myself to take in my surroundings and to remind myself where I am, and more importantly, where I am not.
The sickness in my stomach is replaced by a new kind of dread. The houses are the same, all the same. I can’t find a street sign, but I know I ran fast and I ran far and I didn’t pay attention to anything. I broke every rule that I have and I’ve gotten what I deserve for it. It’s the middle of the night and I am alone and lost and drenched in darkness.
I instinctively pat my pocket, feeling for my phone so I can use the GPS. Empty. Of course I didn’t bring it. I ran out the door so fast I forgot, because I’m careless and impatient and I didn’t think of anything beyond air and sneakers.
I follow the sidewalk. I must be on the outer edge of the community against the preserve that walls it in. I know that this sidewalk probably circles the whole neighborhood, which can give me some bearings and I should stay on it. But I can’t help it. I want to get the hell away from all of those trees. I can’t see past them and I can’t control what comes out of them and there are too many sounds to process.
There are no street lamps where I’m standing now, but I can see the faint yellow glow of one up ahead. The houses along the other side of the street are shadowed in dark and sleep. Like all sane people at this hour. The churning in my stomach is still there, but it’s being overshadowed by the fear of being lost.
My kubotan is swinging at my side until my keys are nothing but a blur. I listen to the quiet that settles around me. I can hear everything: the hum of the streetlamps from overhead, crickets chirping, unintelligible voices coming from a television somewhere, and a sound I can’t place right away. It’s rhythmic and coarse. Following the direction of the sound, I glance down into the darkness and see light coming from one house at the end of the road. It’s brighter than what could be given off by the front lamps alone. I head towards the house, not knowing what I expect to find there. Maybe someone awake who can give me directions. Directions you can’t ask for, idiot. In the distance the rhythmic scratching sound continues. Soft and almost musical and I follow it. The house is close and the sound is louder now, though I still can’t tell what it is, until a moment later I’m there.
I stop at the end of the driveway, in front of a pale yellow house with a brightly lit open garage. I want to look in to see if anyone is inside before I get too close, but my feet won’t stop. The sight of it pulls me in. As soon as I reach the threshold, I am frozen, only one thought forming in my mind. I know this place. I take a tentative step closer, looking around, remembering details of a place I know I have never been. I know this place. The thought invades my brain repeatedly, and as it does, I finally take note of the rhythmic sound, still humming in my ears. There is a figure sitting at a workbench on the far wall of the garage, his hand moving back and forth, sanding down the narrow edge of a wooden beam. My eyes are fixed on those hands as if they’re hypnotizing me. I pull my gaze away to follow the dust falling to the floor, catching the light as it goes. I know this place. The thought comes at me again and I suck in my breath all at once and I just need a second. One more second to process what it means. I know this place. But before I can think, the hands have stopped, the sound has stopped and the person in the garage has turned around to face me.