-Kathleen Firethorn-
I was running.
Faster, faster, I could hear their heavy footfall on the ground behind me, catching up. The world raced by me in a stream of blended colours. Mottling into nothing but a blur and the smell of damp, decaying autumn leaves strong up my nose.
Faster, I willed myself on, keep going. My lungs were sore, my chest constricting tightly around me as my muscles screamed for oxygen. My legs strained, but pushed on numbly, clumsily. My head was spinning, throat dry. My hands clenched so tightly into fists as I swung them back and forth that they'd become pale orbs, feelingless. If I released them they would tingle as if I'd stuck them into ice water.
My foot caught a tree root that had raised just enough beneath the cover of the dead leaf trail to trip me up. I knew it was all over in the fall, time seemed to slow and I couldn't help but think back to the moment I'd decided it was time to try and run again, one week ago. I always hoped this time would be the last I'd have to run, just not like this.
ONE WEEK BEFORE
My life is sheltered. Literally. I have no home, just a cold prison masquerading as a mansion, hidden in plain sight. I don't go out beyond the front gate of its grounds. There are wardens, apparently for my protection, body guards, always stationed to keep an eye on daddy's little asset. No chance of sneaking out, I've tried it many times, each time I get dragged back and more restrictions incurred. I feel like a caged animal most days. Over time it's made me feel flimsy. Like I'm just some thin, pale, smoke like shell. Here, but wasted. I don't feel alive. Closest I come to it is when I run. I've only got the grounds to stretch my legs, some days I don't want to stop, I want to push through the barriers. Get out of here.
I'm not exactly a kid expecting to be given free reign. I'm no teenager trying to rebel. I turned twenty in the spring, it's autumn now, but for a long time I've been trapped in permanent winter. Waiting for life to start. For leaves to grow, for sun to shine, ice to melt. But it never happens.
I've often wondered if any of this is real. The house stuck in time, the mother stuck in protocol and the ways of the past, the father somewhere out there building a future, promising one, and never delivering. The child never allowed to grow up, but not given the freedom of Neverland either.
Staring up at wall mounted weapons in my parent's bedroom, mother's downstairs in her office, dad's not due home for another couple days, if he shows up at all. I can't help but wonder what sort of person collects knives, daggers and swords, from many cultures, and then thinks it would be cosy to display them in their own bedroom.
My father has an obsession with bladed weapons, guns too I'm pretty sure. But those are locked away. One in a compartment inside the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. You have to uncover it and slide a hatch. I only know because I had a nightmare one night when I was eleven, not long after my confinement from the outside world began. It already felt like forever though. I dreamed someone was at the window, terrible burns all over their skin, scars, blood, and animal eyes. My father automatically reached into his drawer and first pulled out his phone, hitting a speed dial button, requesting help, then he slid the hatch and pulled out a hand gun. Sleek and silver, I couldn't tell you what calibre. The internet's activity has always been monitored in our house. I guess he was just trying to protect me, everything he does is to protect me and my mother apparently. But she's allowed to leave with less than three armed escorts. I get that ,and more. I only wish I knew why. I wish I knew who my father was. But in all honesty, I know nothing.
The night I had that dream there were more guards in the house than I'd ever seen before, and dad had taken the gun to my room. I didn't return to it, instead I had to sleep in a spare room with my mother and a guard. Always so careful. Always so cautious. As if bad dreams were real, as if it was possible to find a monster under my bed.
I stared up at his prized collection, right over my parents bed, Japanese weapons. The others he has staff clean and polish, these he handles himself, a lustful look in his eyes. As if he loves their steel more than my mother's flesh. But who am I to comment on my parents relationship. I've never experienced friendship, let alone love.
The tanto, the smallest of the set, a dagger like weapon with no curve, was at the very bottom. Above it the double edged, completely straight Tsurugi, I wasn't really trusted to look up guns. But these were fine apparently. The tsurugi seemed like a stiff weapon, nowhere as fluid as the Tachi, one of the longest and most curved of the blades. There was naginata, a curved single edged blade on the end of a long pole, a nagimaki, similar in principle but the blade was longer and more slender and the hilt shorter, and a kodachi, small and compact but curved much like the tachi. My father prized them all so much. They weren't a part of our culture, just part of his obsession. My father is as British as they come, descended from Scandinavians who came over probably, with his paleness. I wish I could be sure, only searching the family history is also monitored. More to the point, when I have searched, I've found very little on us. I know my mother's parents were rich and important and possibly not both from this country. If I had the details I would give them. But again, my life is sheltered and my internet access monitored.
Leaning over the edge of the bed, I reached up to the katana at the middle of all the others. It wasn't the longest of the weapons, it was in between. Less of a curve than the tachi, not so straight as a tsurugi, only one sharp edge. It looked just right, seemed elegant and strong at once. I ran my fingers along its metal, smooth and cold, a moment later I shuddered as I felt the edge bite into my skin. "Shit," I hissed pulling my hand back I stuck my finger into my mouth and sucked on the coppery liquid that had dribbled from a knick in the skin.
I grabbed two tissues from the box on my father's bedside, wrapped one around my finger and wiped the blade with the other. I could get away with leaving fingerprints, maybe, but not if they were bloody.
I held my wrapped finger tightly, all I had to do was apply pressure. The cut would seal itself naturally, it'd be a scab soon enough and a pink mark by tomorrow evening. Which was fortunate, I haven't always healed so quickly and my mother tends to worry over the smallest things. I was very sick when I was younger, and despite recovering, neither of my parents can get over it.
"Katie," A voice called from the doorway, I looked round, barely startled by the faked interest. If there was any real interest this person wouldn't call me Katie. That was my father's name for me, from anyone else it just didn't have the same affect.
"Yes?" I looked Cherrie over, her bob a dyed dark red, her clothes airier than mine, but comprised of jumpers and leggings to mimic my style. Her heart shaped face a little chubbier at the cheeks as she smiled her fake smile at me. Brown hazel eyes glancing up towards the weapons I'd been inspecting, before they came back towards me, an edge of worry in them. She was new, I'd only met her a couple times now.
"What are you doing in here, we're supposed to be going over our art studies." She cocked her head to one side, I'd seen in some movies that air hostesses have to smile whether they like a person or not, even if they have a blister on their foot that's burst and starting to bleed against their thin tights. They just smile for hours. That was the same kind of vacant expression Cherrie sent me. She was new, a new friend. They never lasted, I never liked them and they never liked me.
"Oh, just... thinking about my dad." I replied, pulling at the hem of my sweater dress. Perhaps it was a strange thing to admit that you were thinking about your father whilst you stared up at lethal weapons. But they reminded me of him as much as he reminded me of them.
"And it's literature today, Cherrie," returning a grimace rather than a smile. I walked from the room, pulling the door closed behind me. Seeing the last rays of light from the hallway catch across the steel of the blades over their bed before the darkness was locked in, and I was left with Cherrie and a long hallway and light that was supposed to be comforting. But never really was.
I glanced up at the camera at the end of the hall as I turned, cocked my head to one side and raised an eyebrow as if to say 'really?' to whoever was watching. Really, this is who you send?
"Oh, sorry, literature. Are you sure, Katie, your schedule says..." Cherrie began, pulling out her phone, which probably contained instructions on how to coddle and mollify me as well as my schedule.
"I'm changing the regiment for today. Learning is flexible, if something isn't flexible, it's what?" I sent her a look, searching, waiting for the moment something real registered in her expression. I guess I couldn't blame her, few of my emotions were real, few of them were animated either. I'd learned to just seep into the gold floral patterns on the walls.
"Solid. Like any good routine." She suggested, her best hit at optimism. I wondered how much of it was an act. At least in the past the optimism was real. Any of my recently acquired friends lacked anything real at all. I get the feeling they're not hired in from the outside in the same way anymore. Not high school or college students. They're probably just security guards, speaking of which, I waved to a man sat on a chair outside of my door where he was propped with a newspaper. He lifted his head for a second, bemused rather than delighted to see me. I couldn't blame him. It wasn't as if there was any real threat to contain or look out for. To my mind, it was just my father's paranoia.
"No. If something isn't flexible, it's brittle. When you try to bend it, it breaks or worse, crumbles. So, I choose to focus on analysing some text today instead of what period a painting was created in based on the lighting in the background or what message was hidden subtly in some detail within it." I explained, pushing my bedroom door open. Greeted by frills and a four post bed and so many things a child would love. I simply sighed and walked over to my desk. The desk was a haven of sorts, designed for study and escape into books. But it too, like the rest of the room, was embellished with childhood trinkets.
"Shut the door please, and put some music on." I said, listening to the door catch behind me. I knew she was silent because she hadn't expected my response before. I didn't get a choice in anything in general. So I took advantage of the small things I could control.
"O-okay..." Cherrie was stifled, a moment later she started the last thing I'd been listening to. Some heavy metal song I'd used to help get me off to sleep because it was loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I'd used headphones to listen to it at the time, of course, because my mother would take issue with it so late at night.
Then again, my mother would take issue almost no matter what I do, or do not do. She's the sort to lift the pearl necklace from her neck, stroke it, let it go, pick it up again, then shift it through her fingers like it's a rosary. All with a fish pout on her lips, almond eyes often narrowed on the subject of her study or scrutiny. Saying this, there is a softness to her that reminds me of myself. A listlessness I see whenever I look in the mirror. Except she's not so pale, her skin is warm as cinnamon, mine is milkier from my father's contribution to my genes. Her eyes are a brighter shade of brown too, a shimmery gold-brown dravite that seems liquid when the light hits it, unlike my darker hewn, far murkier cassiterite irises. She's the kind of woman who holds herself like she knows she's important, a constant air of the professional with her, from her chin length, straightened hair she keeps one shade lighter than its natural carob, to the skirt suits she wears all the time, despite never having any company. The nails, always perfectly manicured and just the way she stands. Regal and elegant. The one unexpected thing is her eyeliner, she wears it with a cat like flick and it takes off most of the years her clothes add on.
Despite her best efforts I'm not quite so well adjusted to this life, or to taking on airs. I have no one to put airs on for, so I've never seen the point. Very few things about me mimic her, all but that general putty likeness. That malleable quality. That certain worn away, flimsiness that comes with never seeing the sun. We share that in common. Her spirit is as weighed down as mine, and it's knowing this that keeps me sane being trapped with her so long. It also makes me appreciate her effort, at least she can go about seeming content with the walls around us. I suppose that really does make her stronger, for all her niggling worries. She lives like this is life and not living death.
I gathered my notebooks up together, stalling. With all the analysing I did in general, I didn't really feel like doing any study. Too much trying to compartmentalise my life and figure out why I had to be kept from the world, or the world had to be kept from me. It made me want to scream. But screaming didn't get you heard. It makes you realise just how deaf people are to you. Especially those you most want to listen, those who might have the answers. After a minor panic, they'll roll their eyes, sigh, tell you this is just the way things are. Then they tell you it could be worse. You should be grateful it's this, for other people it's that. Then they explain their own problems are much worse, too, so yours doesn't even count as a problem. Lastly, they come right out and call you ungrateful. This describes my relationship with my mother, when I don't simply nod at what she says, sit pleasantly and quietly and live compliantly. So we avoid each other, sticking to opposite ends of the house a good deal of the time.
I must have been frozen there for a while, some classical piece had started playing after the metal and then come to its conclusion and an indie track had taken over from it-I leave my music on shuffle, it gets boring listening to just one thing. With all my distraction I shuddered at the feel of a hand on my shoulder.
"I can see this place is getting to you." Cherrie spoke softer and lower now, her hand firm on my shoulder. "I know you think I can't be your friend, just because your father pays me to be here. But...the money is really a bonus. I really do like you. I wish you'd let me in. Give me a chance." She was trying to sound genuine, whenever people did that in the past they were usually after something or under obligation. "I'm not like the other people your father's hired, I want to help you. Maybe help you get out of here." She paused, I'd stopped breathing. This smacked of trap. "I hear you tried to run in the past, that you haven't for a while now. It's sad to hear you stopped trying. You shouldn't have to be locked up your whole life. You're twenty, you should be able to live. Maybe all this time not trying, maybe their guards a little lax, hm?"
I turned around, eyes narrowed on her face. The words were enticing but so out of the blue. I said nothing. Just stared at her and focused on getting myself to breathe. I felt like she was fishing for my father, whether she was studying my reaction to tell him. Most of my 'friends' were spies for him. Keeping a check on what I said and did when they were around. Only not really trusting them meant it never worked for him.
"I want to help. So, if you ever decide you want to run, tell me first, okay?" Cherrie's eyes never glanced away from mine. Not for a second. It was like she was completely serious. If I didn't know my father better I'd want to believe her.
"I'm not going to run. It's a silly idea, I have...everything I need right here. I'm provided for." My voice even, I managed to keep my eye contact with her steady. I knew if I looked away she'd know it was a feeble lie.
"We both know that's not true." Cherrie raised her eyebrow at me. She didn't even know me, so how was she so sure. "You wouldn't have tried to run in the past if there wasn't a good reason..."
"I love what my father has given me, a stress free life, where it's safe. I wouldn't betray him like that." The lie was getting flimsier and my eyes were on the floor, looking at Cherrie's shoes.
"So you're telling me you don't lie in bed dreaming about getting out of here? I think that's why security isn't so tight anymore, they're not afraid of you trying anymore, they've broken you. They don't have to worry, you could just...walk right out of the building."
There was a long pause. A long time where I locked my jaw and stiffened my muscles and resisted bursting with a yes, and an 'of course I do.' But after rallying myself I managed a stiff, "It wouldn't work, and I wouldn't tell you if I were going to run. Because he'd know and you'd get a nice bonus on top of whatever he's paying you to baby sit." It turned into a hiss, as I picked my notebooks up and held them to my chest. The suggestion that it was that simple made my blood boil. If it was that easy, I'd be gone already.
"No, Kathleen, I mean it... I have connections, other pay checks. I don't need your father's. I really just..."
"Shut up." I breathed, trying to contain this burning feeling like I contained every other.
"What..." She blinked at me, the first time she'd faltered since her voice had become so sugared.
"Shut. up. and. get. out." After a moment I repeated a little less breathy. "Get out of my room."
"If you're sure?" She simply smirked at me, "But freedom doesn't come to you. You have to fight for it. This cage is like a solid routine, so bend it. Maybe it'll crumble, if your theory's right." Cherrie backed up, her bob swaying as she turned and headed out of my door, she paused again, "I'll be resigning when I get down stairs. Your father doesn't know about this conversation and he won't from me. I'd stay quiet if I were you, if you ever want a chance at running." Then she pulled the door open, slipped out and closed it behind her.
I stared at it for a while, waiting for her words to stop echoing in my mind. But she was right. Perhaps if I couldn't get answers, if I couldn't get a little more breathing room, I'd run again. This time I'd change the outcome. I'd never be coming back.
I walked over to my window and stared out at the statue in the middle of the drive, stuck just like me. My breath fogged up the glass and as I wiped it away I watched Cherrie walking towards the big black iron gates. She glanced back up at me, giving me a knowing look. Raising her right hand she saluted. When the gates parted for her and she walked out freely I realised how much I craved that ability. To go where I please. Which was anywhere but here.
My phone buzzed on my bedside minutes after she'd disappeared. I walked to it and picked it up hesitantly. The text was from Cherrie. Which was strange, my playmates were never given my phone number. I frowned at it.
Text >: Doubt we'll meet again, K . A. Remember what I said about telling your father. If you ever want to taste freedom you won't mention it. - C
A moment later an outside source accessed it and deleted the message. Usually if my phone was tampered with it would be by those my father paid to keep tabs on my activity. This time I could tell it was her somehow. I wandered back to my window and stared out of it again. Apparently she'd been dead serious about it not reaching my father.
She was right. We probably would never meet again. She wouldn't be coming back to the house now. I also wouldn't talk to my father about this. One hint towards running and he'd tighten my leash further and I really couldn't breathe at all if that happened.
On the other hand, I could do the mature thing and ask for some more freedom. Then again 1x0 is still 0. The worst I hoped that could happen is having to try and run again, and honestly, I enjoy it. Just not how it always seems to end.
THE DAY I DIED
Evidently, talking didn't work and so I ran. With every event after that conversation leading me to it. Only the people chasing me weren't my father's guards, weren't my body guards. They were thugs I'd never seen before. Like sharks smelling blood in the water, they weren't out to take me back. They were out to tear me to shreds. I guess my father was right about the outside world.
As fast my heart pumped and adrenalin raced through my system, neither could carry my feet fast enough. I couldn't keep myself from slipping up. It was over before it had begun. I had never expected this to be the outcome. I guess I was right, I was never going home again.
I put my hands in front of me as I fell, but they weren't enough to catch myself. I slid through the moist twigs, grazing up my palms on loose stones and jarring my shoulders back as my elbows collided with the hard ground, leaves squelching up against my skin and making it damp and itchy.
I went to push myself up, but it was too late. They'd caught up to me, I felt someone grab my forearm and violently yank me round to look up at the three of them, still on the ground. I screamed, kicking my legs up at them, trying to force them away. I saw the glint of a knife as two of them went to hold me down, the third with the weapon searched my pockets and pulled out my ID and anything else he could find whilst I tried to wriggle and shout.
Shoving all of my stuff into his pockets, he moved forward with the knife. I felt the first sharp sensation run through me, a ripping, cold feeling sliding diagonally across my collar bone. He hadn't dug his knife in far, but he ran it in a jagged line across my skin, making a small trench instead of a deep gash. I clenched my eyes together, letting a tear slip out, trying to cry and scream, but my lungs hurt so much from running.
This was it.
The day I died.