Mr. John (On Hold)

- Chapter Three-

She ran. Until she could recall no further, she was racing something. In the olden days, she skittered about, chasing butterflies, she sprinted around her puppies and loped playing hide and seek. As years folded and roles shifted, running had become the sole art she mastered. Running away, running after things, running to people, running from her demons. It made no difference, for she rolled from one pit of darkness into another.

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

The tunes blasted in her ears unheard. Elaine focused her sheer might, while she lapped Highland Park for the eighth time, on one thing: not stopping. Her face flushed as her body radiated heat, and she could taste the saltiness while sweat trickled down her lips. Her knees almost buckled as she paused for a sip of water. Two more laps, she puffed. She couldn't rest before hitting her daily target, ten kilometres. Two minutes behind her average pace, and for the first time in months, she considered succumbing. Something felt wrong since she woke up. Wait, you couldn't wake up if you didn't sleep to begin with.

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

Elaine had lain in her bed wide-awake all night. She hadn't realized it was dawn until her windows gleamed in a golden hue; her cue to rise. Why hadn't the alarm rung? Perhaps it did. Maybe when she was too busy taming her wayward thoughts, or when she tucked herself underneath the blanket while having her first panic attack in a year. She had tossed and turned, attempting to trace the mystifying apprehension that had gripped her heart. Is it Gary? No, I've always worried about him anyway. Hall, with his mysterious John Doe? Meh. She could swear the man meant another Elaine Wright. She had looked her name up and found tens on Facebook. So what is it?

What is wrong with me?

"Are you blind!" someone yelled, sending her back to reality. A tire screeched, and then a horn blared in a craze. She found herself past the park fence, right in the middle of the street. Not only had her mind gone astray.

"Moron!" she mumbled, more at herself than to the man who almost ran her over. She retreated to her track around the park fence, too dumbfounded to go on, heck she felt so messed up on so many physical and mental levels. Nine kilometres, her running app announced, average pace eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. She was falling far behind her average. Let's call it a run.

She arrived early. The National Institute of Mental Health was a ten-minute walk, standing tall against the buildings of Highland University. In med-school days, she looked up to the place, dazzled and longing. Now there she was, cursing every morning, and picturing herself flinging her resignation in Hall's Face. Gary would be so proud.

The lounge was deserted except for a very tall stranger who stood near the microwave fiddling with wires. Finally, an electrician. She cleared her throat, and walked to the kitchenette where the kettle lay forgotten. "Is it working now?" she asked, already filling it with water.

"Everything's working just fine, I'm already leaving."

"Thanks. You're a life saver," she almost sang, but the man had already vanished. Good thing maintenance people carried copies of the lounge key; Snott was plopped on the lower bunk snoring, unaware his shift had ended, and Paul was nowhere to be seen, probably at Grease fetching breakfast. Let's make some tea. Her phone beeped and a reminder popped up.

Call Gary.

To her amusement, she had found a saucepan in her fridge, its lid cocked to one side. Honey Mustard Chicken Thighs, Gary had mentioned it casually over the phone before he took his flight. For five years, he had never ceased to impress her. Heat and eat! He had plastered a note on the lid where he penned the letters in funny handwriting with a smiley face at the end.