Dating : Aftermath of The Footsteps

Your ragged breath is too noisy. If they hear you, you will have to run. You stagger to a halt, listening again for their footsteps. You look around, your stomach churning, wondering where you are, and how you got here. All you know is you are desperate to ensure you. Do. Not. Get. Caught. There are still footsteps behind you, but they sound more distant, barely audible over your heart thundering in your ears.

They’re no longer running, but searching, searching for you. Who are they, you wonder? You scrub at your eyes, as beads of sweat drip into them causing your vision to blur and your eyes to burn. Whisper a half-forgotten prayer to St. Adelphi, and down the passage you go. The unpainted cinderblock walls have no markings, but who needs them, when the hallway is all there is. There are doors. Some of them have numbers, the nice painted ones that reflect the painfully bright fluorescent lights. The other doors are more industrial. Gray metal, with giant rounded rivets holding the panels and the cross planks together. You growl in mounting frustration, as each handle you try is locked.

You inhale and regret it as you gag. The putrid smell of an infected wound, blends with an antiseptic scent. Somewhere ahead, just a waft of too many people crowded together mixes in to set your nausea dial somewhere between projectile vomit and voluntarily stop breathing.

The rough cinderblock walls merge with the dirt-encrusted linoleum floor as you look down this never-ending hallway. Your heart leaps; in the distance you see side-passages. You trudge on, ignoring the protesting muscles of your calves and thighs.

You near the first tunnel, and slow your pace, walking on your tiptoes, the only sound your still ragged breath. Peeking around the corner, the passage dead ends within a few hundred feet, with a single door at the end. Lighting in these side passages is a study in gloom. Your shoulders relax as you see the first real possibility of eluding your pursuers.

Another breath; your stomach tightens when you realize that the stench hasn’t faded; the putrid smell is you. With growing fear, you sniff again, slowly turning. A sharp pain in your back threatens to bring back your memories, memories you instinctively know you don’t want to recall.

You dart down a side passage, hoping for a moment’s rest.

You stumble, catching yourself against a door frame. Exhaustion makes your head heavy. Your eyes threaten to close. Desperately you clutch at something, anything to keep yourself awake. “What am I wearing?” you whisper to yourself.

You pull the tunic cut top out. The course material makes a sucking sound as it pulls at your chest. You consider removing the shirt to wring it out, but raising your arms intensifies the pain in your back, and you stop.

The shirt is nondescript, a sandy beige with a hemmed collar and bottom. Your pants match, that same boring beige. Your shoes are basic slip-on rubber soled canvas utilitarian and unisex.

You groan, mourning the designer sneakers, the comfortable jeans, T-shirt that showed off your assets, and your favorite sweatshirt. You lift your shirt, still hoping your money belt is attached, when was that? This morning. You’re convinced all this happened in less than twelve hours. A small voice in the back of your mind whispers, “Are you sure?”

You know someone has taken the money. Giggling, you lower your shirt, shaking your head at your own foolishness. The shirt catches on a bandage on your back that you didn’t know you had. Confused you reach back touching, probing. You push too hard and stifle a painful gasp. That smell of infection slams into your nose, obliterating fear, trumpeting the onslaught of pain and nausea.

Only prisoners wear these muted colors, you think to yourself. And again that little voice whispers, “Prisoner, or patient?”

You shunt the voice aside; you know you are a captive. But When? How? Why? You puzzle over this, absently raising one shaking hand to scratch your head. You’re startled to see an emaciated claw coming toward you. Confused, you throw your arms out, swallowing the scream.

You strain to listen. You hold your breath, still making far too much noise for your liking. But given the alternative, you continue. Your knees buckle, as awareness breaks through your muddled thoughts.

You press your back against the wall and slide down until you rest your head on your knees. Laughter and tears war on your face, when you realize that clawed hand attacking you was your own. It responded to the order to scratch your head. Reminded of the itch, it slowly burns in your scalp.

You raise the hand with your eyes closed, imagining the hand you know, not the alien claw attached to your wrist.

Relief floods your body as the burning subsides, and the itch fades. You continue to scratch, absently, while you listen again for them.

Dampness on your head? Even knowing what you will see, that hand still revolts you. You jerk back as a memory streaks through your mind. You bang your head against the wall you’re leaning against when you do.

The blood on your fingers concerns you, but not enough to get back up. Lethargy takes hold; your guard fails. Still no footsteps. Maybe this time you’ve shaken them. It’s your last thought as your body succumbs to the weariness adrenaline’s kept at bay. Your eyes drift closed, leaning against the wall. Your once ragged breath calming to a slow rhythm.

Amid the soft snores footsteps are audible, once again as your demons gather round to watch, and stand guard until the next time they may torment.