Untouchable

I ran through the crouded streets, and people stared. It was thursday, and people were out shopping. Some murmured to each other and some exclaimed as I pushed past them. My legs felt like jelly, and my mind felt like concrete. Like the concrete wedged inside my skull was getting bigger and bigger, pressing harder every heartbeat untill I thought it might explode.

She wasn't what I expected; for one thing, she was a lot smaller than I thought. But in the videos, she looked... Almost like a teenager. She looked more or less alive; but the images stuck in my head now were only of a torn, half-living, half-dying being in the body of a child. She wasn't her, no. Her frail figure belonged to a much more innocent, young girl. A girl who would look at the world and see fun and a future, not fear.

I stormed through the doors and raced up the stairs to my appartment, frantically searching for my key in my pocket. I sneezed, the dust still in my nose. My hands were shaking too much and everything I held just slipped out of hands.

I stopped, staring at the numbers on the door. I didn't know what to do. There was nothing I could do. I knew that my life would never go back to normal; not after this. I was a coward. I was ashamed. I slid down the doorframe, my head in my hands. It felt so heavy.

I got it so wrong. So, so wrong. I tried to help her, but it was no use. I should just stay away, I thought. And not be the hero. No one can be a hero this time.

It seemed like hours before I stood up; but when I did, it felt like I had been sitting down with my eyes closed for only minutes. Maybe I had fallen asleep.

Standing up, I felt no ache in my back, where there should have been one, and my head felt heavy, not tight. I put my hand in my pocket but still my key wasn't there. I wandered around for a while, climbing stiffly down the stairs that seemed to go on forever.

As I walked out the doors, through the front driveway for the rest of the people that lived there, I passed a tap. Bending down, I splashed water onto my face, and onto my neck. The water was hot from the sun but still it woke me up a bit. I stepped onto the pavement and retraced my steps, dreading the memory that became clearer by every stride. It wasn't long before I saw that old church again. It loomed higher than it did before, and it's peaks were like sharp arrows ready to peirce and puncture me.

I walked inside, with my hand over my nose so I didn't sneeze. I noticed small strands of hair on the ground, a trail leading up to the steps. There was nobody there. Just a pile of old tapes and a video camera, and something gleaming on the step. As I got closer, I saw that it was a knife, old and rusty with a serrated edge. For a moment, the breath caught in my throat, like a rock. I tried to swallow it down but couldn't. I bent down, closer to the knife, and saw that there was nothing on it. But beside it was a small pile of hair, each strand about two inches long. It was blonde and pale, and when I picked it up it caught the sunlight.

Letting the thin strands of hair fall through my fingers, I stood up and walked back to my appartment. I didn't know what I was going to do when I got there. I guessed that I would have to ask for another key, and maybe even new locks.

I remember the sight of her, asleep, leaning against the door. She wasn't peaceful, but she wasn't scared or nervous or distressed. She looked as if she were in a kind of limbo, between dreaming and nightmares.

In her hand she gripped the key as if it were her life. And maybe it was. Maybe it was a small string of hope.