Run

Chandra

Chandra peaked through the tiny crack in the rotten wood door, the piercing beam of sunshine making the thin coating of sweat on her forehead shine in a strangely haunting way. She could hear the footsteps of policeman-like shoes running across the sidewalk over her quickened and ragged breath which she wished more than anything to hold in, but she was just too exhausted. Then the footsteps came into sight, fleeting quickly through her field of vision and then gone; their clicking noise was still audible for a few seconds and then that was gone too. She turned around fell down on the moldy cement floor with a dull thud and an exhale for the ages. The air was moist and cool from years of leaky pipes and no matter how filthy it was, it felt wonderful pouring into her lungs. There was a pipe above her head that leaked water down on her face; it felt like heaven on her burning red face. And then, with legs aching and heart on fire, she passed into what walked a fine line between sleep and unconsciousness.
When she woke up, she could hear a kind of crackling noise and the strings of an acoustic guitar playing. She gave a tired groan and opened her just rested eyes. She could smell the rugged and woody smell of the burning wood. Though still tired, her breathing and heart rate were back to normal. She could still see the pipe dripping water onto her forehead. She lifted her head and saw a small campfire and boy no older than seventeen with the guitar. He was playing a tune that was unmistakably a campfire song tune. Even though she had learned over the past few weeks not to trust anybody, she didn’t panic. In fact, the music was soothing.
He noticed her groan and stopped playing his guitar to look at her with a satirical expression.
“Well, would look at you? Took a nice long nap, have yah?” She returned his easy-going look with one of confusion. “Something you don’t understand? Come on, do you have a question?”
“Well, yah: Who are you?”
“I’m Mark, and you are…?”
“Why should I tell you?” She replied in a voice shocked at how calm he was.
“Oh, kitty’s getting feisty I see. Well, you don’t have to worry; I’m on the run too. Been runnin’ for six years.” Taken aback once again, she sat up to get a better view of him. Her spine still ached a bit but it was nothing that would hinder her. The boy had unkempt black hair and a light blue T-shirt on. His guitar was a 7-string, meaning he must be a masterful player considering his age, and had mud splattered on the body. His arms were lanky and his legs were fit and well muscled.
“If you think I’ll just believe you than you’re stupider than you look.” He looked not at all stupid, but she wanted to intimidate him.
“You think someone gets this dirty from spying for the government? If so, you need to meet a friend of mine named Common Sense.” He picked up his guitar again and began playing a Jimmy Buffet sounding song, perhaps Cheeseburger In Paradise.
“How could you have a pick still with you if you been running for so long? Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t they really small?”
“I don’t use a pick.” He held up a hand of long and disgustingly dirty finger nails. “I do it the old fashioned way; I finger pick.” Having about as much experience with stringed instruments as Tim Burton had with rocket science, she couldn’t refute this.
“That still doesn’t prove you’re a runaway.”
“You can’t take a chance, can you? Just trust me.” Chandra could easily see that this conversation was getting absolutely nowhere. She gave a defeated sigh.
“So, where did you get the wood for that fire?”
“Tore it off from some planks in the back. Before I found those planks, I almost burned my guitar. I would have, but I’ve been playing for eight years and it’s kind of close to me.” He gave a tired sigh. “But when it boils down, you gotta survive.” Chandra knew exactly how he felt. She had only been on the run for a few weeks and had already had to smash her most treasured photograph on someone’s face to escape from being captured. That photo was of she and her sister with their arms over each other’s shoulder and smiling. It was the only thing she had packed except for crumbled Pop-Tarts in her pocket.