Footsteps

Chapter 1

Footsteps.

I remember the footsteps of my family, once upon a time, when we all were if not a perfect family then one that at least lived together and talked and laughed. I knew each of their footsteps, the way they stomped or strode along or shuffled along.

These footsteps serve only to fill me with dread. These footsteps bring me closer to what I dread.

The motion of walking, shifting one foot forward, balancing my weight on it, lifting the other foot and shifting it even farther forward. Even such simple thoughts pull me nearly off-balance, and I hurriedly hush my thoughts. I need to focus.

The world is out of focus, or perhaps focused too much. I cannot discern the shape of trees or houses, but tiny leaves embellish my vision, demanding all my focus with their delicate curves and perfect symmetry and balance.

Some of those leaves scratch against my skin, and I realize that they are not the delicate and soft flora they appear to be: their edges are rough and spiked with tiny teeth that catch along my skin, creating tiny rips.

How large a rip would it take? How wide would a chasm in my skin need to be for my essence to escape? Would it have to be a large one, or would dozens and hundreds and thousands of tiny one suffice?

Ridiculous thoughts, as a tiny drop of blood swishes gently down with the slide of gravity, away from the veins where it was created and sheltered. What must it be like, to be a minuscule drop of liquid, marooned from all that is familiar in a world foreign and deadly dry? Sometimes I think I know.

My footsteps are so slow when I listen to the deep thrums of my heartbeat. That impatient and insistent rhythm cannot be matched by my steps, no matter how fast or far my feet may carry me.

Which, based on the traitorous way they are beginning to ache and tremble, will not be much further. Closing my eyes, I force myself to slow my pace, folding my hands behind my back and sucking in slow breaths as deep into my lungs as I can. I have a long way to go still. I need to conserve energy.

My feet trudge onward, and I lift my head to look about. The sky looks so strange, like it is an enormous tarp draped through the atmosphere to conceal the suddenly modest stars.

A strange thought, that perhaps the sky should not always wish to be seen and admired by many eyes. Should something beautiful always be seen? Should it be cherished in deepest secret and never shared with others, or is to conceal beauty the deepest form of selfishness?

Pain sharply cuts off such thoughts with a curt jab into my heel. I scrape my foot hurriedly across the ground, dislodging whatever sharp object I have tread on, and continue on, the small pulse of pain continuing for a few more seconds. All too soon, it is replaced by an aching on the back of my legs, making each step a new stab of pain.

It is good that I do not have much farther to go, but the last part of this journey is the most difficult and requires the closest concentration, but I am numb and nearing the point of exhaustion.

My hand brushes the ancient, gnarled wood, and I sigh in relief. Soon it will be done and over, and I can start the process of forgetting. I weave my way deeper, searching among the many limbs. It seems to be denser, more crowded than the last time I was here, but the multitude just complicates my task to locate the one I need.

Finally, I spot the one I need, and a jump, a duck, and a shuffle gets me close enough to wrap my hand around the comfortable lip where the limp was once seared and nearly broken in half by lightning. Using the lip as a handhold, I pull myself up, feeling the tell-tale tremble in my arms with the effort. It has been too long.