One Parisian Night

               As I run through the dimly lit back alley on a warm Parisian night, I know in my heart and soul that this is it. There is definitely no turning back now. A part of me feels slightly guilty, okay; maybe even a little bit sad to be leaving behind all those people I call my friends. It shouldn’t have made me feel like this though. I swore that I would not get attached to anyone. Its just too much hassle. I try to shake off the memories from the past few years, particularly the past few months. 

                But yet, even with all the guilt and the slight doubts, the thoughts of what I could go on to achieve, and even more so, the reputation I could make for myself keep my legs pumping. My feet keep pounding the old paved ground. Its pure adrenaline and exhilaration, that’s providing me with the energy, and superhuman strength to keep on moving. Sweat runs down my badly styled hair, dripping onto my nose. I swear I can feel the deep, heavy breathing of my pursuers on my neck. It sends shivers down my spine, and goosebumps appear on my skin. They feel so close behind. I glance over my shoulder. Clear. For the moment at least…

                This had been planned for exactly seven hundred and twelve days. Two years had passed since my twenty-first birthday. It was late on that particular night that I had first joked about it with the guys. Laughing though, we passed it off and ordered another round of Sambuca.

                I rolled in my bed the following morning, regretting having ever invited anybody to the party. I was quite literally dying after that night. Suddenly my phone fell on the floor, caused by the ringing vibration and its precarious position on the edge of the locker. It was James. Hangover chats are not the most exciting of chats. It is easily on par with listening in on two zombies saying hi.

                In Ireland, a fresh roll filled with a hot chicken fillet smothered in breadcrumbs, and luscious green lettuce, is our go-to hangover cure. Sitting in James’ two year old, gloss black Audi A4, we silently drank tea and prepared ourselves for the day. Half an hour eventually passed before either of us spoke. It was James.

                “It has to be perfect. No silly effort. If we’re going to do it, it has to be right,” said James, “Perfect.”

                I had almost forgotten that I joked about this last night. I felt slightly embarrassed, and the car became uncomfortably warm. I slid down the window as I decided how to reply.

                “You sure?” I said.

                James drained his cup. “We will have to leave everybody behind when this is done.”

                “I have no one left James, that drunken fool who drove the wrong way on the motorway took care of that,” I was still sore about that summer’s night, “Anyways, it’s you I’d be worried about.”

                “Ahh I think it’s time for me to spread my wings.” said James.

                The conversation ended shortly after, and we both parted company, leaving to continue our very different lives. Looking back, I should have known that having a family, even too many friends, that James was a bad choice for a partner. Yet, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. We had after all been friends since we fought over a Mr. Men book many, many years ago.

                From that time, and right up until this morning’s flight, we researched. We researched everything; from the security guards’ lunchtime habits, alarm systems, new passports. We had thought of everything. But I had thought of one more detail, one which I decided to hold from James. I guess it was because of something a girl had said to me, when she started talking about a future together. Something about sharing everything with your loved ones. Well I just couldn’t take that risk with James.