Run

My weary gray eyes dart from one dull wall to the next. The same four walls I had been staring at for the past six months. Or, at least, it feels like six months. It's hard to keep track of time when you have no calendar, no company, and aren't allowed anywhere except a dreary metal room. My eyes fall on the silver toilet in the far left corner of the room, sitting next to a simple sink. The only other piece of furniture in the room is the uncomfortable, thinly-mattressed cot I sit upon. The only change in the walls is the large metal door on the right side of where I sit. The door is always locked, except when 'they' open the smaller, doggie-door sized passage at the bottom to push 'food' and water through for me. I use the term 'food' loosely–it usually consists of bread and a few pieces of unidentifiable vegetables. When I'm really lucky, the bread is not covered in mold and the veggies are not rotten. My elaborate meal comes to me twice a day. Sometimes it might be three times, but I also might be dreaming that third time up. Of course, whoever dreams of that slop must be insane, or at least getting there. Which I'm sure I probably am.

I don't know why I'm here. I don't know who 'they' are. The most I've seen of another person while I've been here is a hand, sometimes a forearm, as my food is pushed through. I am starving, I am lonely, and I am angry as fuck.

I'd come here expecting a party. Somebody had slipped an invitation under the door of the small two-bedroom apartment I share with my roommate, Josie, and her pussycat, Smith. It said simply:

Party.

Tonight.

(Some sort of address I don't remember.)

Be there.

and it was signed to me. Far be it for me to pass up a party. I was expecting free booze, free drugs, rooms upstairs–namely, fun. What I got was a shot to the neck with some sort of sleepy-drug while standing outside a huge brick building matching the address I don't remember, and a room with a view. I hate everything.

As I push my greasy black hair from my face, I hear a noise. Mealtime. Bingo. The time I've been waiting for. You see, after my first week here, in which I beat my fists violently against the unyielding door and screamed until I was hoarse, and then the next four blurry months in which I went through heroin withdrawal (I have since vowed never to touch the stuff again) I devised a plan. It's a simple plan, but I've always felt trying is better than rotting slowly away while going insane.

I crouch by the doggie-door food opening as a burly hand pushes the revolting slop through. I grab the wrist and pull. Hard. I hear a dull 'thud' as the hand, arm, and shoulder slide smoothly through the opening. My heart leaps as I hastily scramble my scrawny frame through the opening and into a long hallway lined with doors just like mine. The food-bringer is out cold. I am so surprised at my luck, I almost forget the next step. However, a blaring alarm and flashing red lights bring me back to my senses and I remember my brilliant plan: RUN LIKE HELL.

I bolt to my right, running as fast as I can away from the limp food-guy. The hallway is featureless, save for the doors streaming past and the flaming red lights. It also seems to have no end as I search wildly for some sort of exit, some kind of escape route. I finally spot a turn in the endless hallway and, as I round it, 'SMACK!' It feels like I hit some sort of brick wall, but as I fall dazedly backward, I realize it's a muscle-bound freak-of-nature dressed in, what I suppose to be, a guard's uniform.

I regain my balance, trying to assess my situation. Unfortunately, all I can think is Oh, no. Oh, absolutely not. I am not going back into that room. No way in hell.

I hear a clear tone piercing my ears, low at first, then increasing in intensity until it drowns out the alarm, the guard's shouts, everything. My vision goes dull, then red, then black.

---------------------------

I am barrelling through the night; down darkened streets, past shadow-blanketed alleys.

“What the--?” The last thing I remember is running into that solid wall of man-meat. My pace falters, but instinct tells me to keep going.

In any other place in the world, a crazed girl with 6-month-worn clothing and matted hair, randomly screaming and racing as fast as possible at who-knows-what-time at night would have been looked upon as odd. Not in my beloved New York City. I realize I'm close to my apartment; or, at least, the place my apartment was half-a-year ago. This is probably not the best place to be, since it's most likely the first place 'they' will look for me. I decide on a quick in-out; shower, grab a few essentials, and get as far away from here as I can. It's as well thought-out as all of my plans.

I reach the decrepit building and burst through the doors. I take the poorly-lit stairs two and three at a time. When I reach my apartment, the door is locked and I don't have a key ('they' took everything that had been in my pockets at the time of my capture). I bang on the door as hard as I can, hoping against hope that Josie is there and aware enough to open it.

I hear the multiple locks being un-done from within. The door opens to reveal a short, skinny girl with frizzy brown hair and bloodshot eyes. I'm guessing she's tripping on something or other. She looks groggily at me, squints her eyes.

“Jez?” She says, faintly.

I push past the slight girl into the dingy apartment. Everything seems the same: frayed couch, beer cans, and various snack-food wrappers strewn about the floor, a grungy kitchenette in the far corner. I stride through to my bedroom. Or at least, what used to be my bedroom. It now contains an unfamiliar futon and several black-light posters hung on the walls. I whirl around to face my apparently-former roommate.

“Josie, where is my stuff?” I'm trying to remain calm.

“Jez, you were gone for, like, a year. I couldn't afford rent by myself; I got a new roommate and Dre moved in,” Dre is Josie's worthless excuse for a boyfriend.

“So, where's my stuff, then, Jo?”

“I…I sold most of it.”

I take a deep breath; in, out. I am furious, but yelling at the girl before me will just make her weepy and even more intolerable than usual. I know from past experience.

“Josie,” I say, slowly, “what did you do with my bike?”

“I gave it to Dre,” she's already on the verge of tears, “he'll be off work in about a half-hour,” she offers.

In, out. “Fine. I am going to take a shower. I will talk to Dre when he gets here.” I storm into her room to see if she has anything I can wear. As I sift through her closet, I can see (to my relief and annoyance) that she's claimed some of my clothing as her own. I pull out a pair of dark jeans, a black tank, my leather; I'm still wearing my Docs, as they were what I'd worn to that fateful ‘party’ half a year ago. I stop short as something Josie said suddenly registers. I turn to face the girl, who has followed me into her room.

“How long did you say I've been gone?”

“A year, Jez.”

My whole body is tingling. Obviously, I hadn't kept a very good track of time in my window-less, clock-less, calendar-less cell. I recover, grab some socks, go into the bathroom and slam the door.

I haven't seen a mirror since before my capture. The damage is worse than I'd pictured; my hair is a massive black clump, the bags under my eyes are a deep purple, my skin has gone from pale to ghostly, my frame has become skeletal.

There are deep red spots on my pants and shirt I hadn't noticed before. They look like blood. They're still wet. I don't appear to be bleeding; I wonder again how I'd gotten out of that building. An inner alarm pushes me to keep going.

I realize there's no way I'm getting a brush of any kind through my hair. I find a pair of scissors and Dre's electric razor in the cabinet. I hack at the wild mess with the scissors until it's short enough to buzz down. My scalp feels strange, bare. I strip and jump in the shower. As usual, the water barely reaches lukewarm, but it feels marvelous. I want to stay there forever, but I force myself to finish up, dry off, put on my wonderfully clean (at least, 'clean' in comparison to what I'd had on) clothes. I stuff the discarded clothing and hair in a trash bag, trying not to leave evidence that I'd been here.

When I step out of the bathroom, Dre is in the front room arguing with Josie. They both stop talking and look at me in unison.

“I'd like my bike back, Dre; give me the keys,” I say it slowly so he can understand. He's probably one of the most unintelligent guys I've ever known (and I've known a lot). Also a huge speed freak. Speaking of which, he seems to be tweaking right now.

“Make me,” he says, whipping out his switchblade and waving it in my general direction. He picked the wrong day to fuck with me. I take two steps toward him and let out a swift kick to his knife-hand. A sickening crack echoes through the room. The blade flies out of his hand and sticks into the far wall, about an inch deep.

“You broke my fucking hand, you bitch!” Dre wails, bent over, cradling his claw with his other arm. My eyes flash to the knife, and I'm suddenly at the far wall, blade in hand. I know I moved for it, but there's no way I could have gone from one side of the room to the other in the blink of an eye. For a moment, we're all in a sort of shock. Josie and Dre are looking at me as though I've become some form of alien. And maybe I have.

I point the knife at Dre, “Keys.” He struggles to pull them out of his pocket with his left hand while Josie tries to examine his mangled right. He finally pulls them out and tosses them to me. My left hand moves like lightning to catch them.

“Where's it parked?”

“Outside, in the alley.

-------------------------------------------

I find my bike at a meter outside the apartment building--a chrome-colored '79 Harley Roadster. Dre's lucky it is where he said it would be.

As I approach, I see something taped to the seat. It's a note, reading simply:

You have questions. I have answers.

Meet me at 4:30 AM.

It gives a nearby street corner and is signed ‘A Friend.’

My plan had been to run as far away as possible, but considering I don't know who and/or what I'm running from, nor how far 'their' hands stretch, I decide to follow where the note leads. If it's a trap, I'm screwed. However, not knowing my situation could have me even more screwed.

My watch reads 4:15 a.m. I jump on my bike and start it up.