by Ariana Hauser

Created on: December 08, 2009

I am running, bare feet pounding pavement, teeth rattling inside my mouth, shoes in hand. I hardly notice the sting of skin slapping concrete because the effects of the six Red Bulls with Vodka I had earlier have not yet worn off. I am only feet in front of my friend of eight years, Darrell, who pursues me with fervor, "stop, A. Just talk to me."

I push my legs harder, wiling them to run faster. How is it that a three-hundred pound man, who has not seen the inside of a gym in nearly a decade, possibly run as fast as me? I who out ran a fifteen year old when I was eight and who was told by my track coach in Middle School that I ran like a doe, I was so graceful and made it look so easy? I can't be that out of shape, it must be Darrell's small, bald head gives him better aerodynamics. I want to punch him in that large, black face of his. It was this very desire, a desire I had promised myself never to act on again, despite the violent Hauser/Houser gene that was passed down to me, that sent me into the streets; foreign streets with names written in Catalan, names like Carrer de Maria Cubi and Carrer de Santalo. It does not bother me that I could run straight into something horrible, being in the middle of an exotic city in an unfamiliar country, on unknown territory, I only notice the white, Spanish Zara heels that swing in my right hand. I leap over a pothole and check behind me. He remains close. I push off the balls of my feet in hopes that will give me an edge.

I am running backwards now, in slow motion.

The broken, brown, cobblestone beneath my feet turns into smooth, warm, black asphalt.

I am seven.

I run down the street of the townhouse complex where I lived with my parents and two younger brothers in Lansing, Michigan.

I had woken earlier that morning to a nagging voice in the back of my head. My eyes had opened for a second before I rolled over on my side, facing the wall. I laid there a moment, eyes closed, retracing the roll over in my mind. I saw something. My eyes had opened just enough to notice something out of place, something that sent a chill up my spine.
I pulled the covers up to my chin. The blanket, a gift from my Gramma, Mother's Mother, was a hand made quilt with red cats in different positions stitched onto individual white squares bored by red fabric that had tiny blue flowers in it. On a day after dealing with Father I would wrap myself up in the quilt and the world would be right again. This morning, however, was different.

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