Freefall
oo7.
Her long legs carry her farther and farther ahead of him; his short, stubby legs run as fast as they can manage, trying to keep up with her. Her heels echo along the high alley walls; his worn-out tennis shoes plod roughly along the battered pavement. Her uncaring heart is focused on herself; his swelling heart doesn’t allow him to forget about her.
“Momma, wait,” he squeaks, upping his pace. His shoe catches on a rise in the asphalt, and the ground comes up to meet him all too quickly. A yelp escapes his lips, to be lost in the smothering darkness. But there is no one to catch him as he goes down, no one to comfort him as he cradles his knee tenderly, no one to even look back. The figure ahead of him is all but gone, dead to the little boy who shares her blood. “Momma?” he calls out, shaking hands propping themselves onto uncertain knees.
Still, she does not turn, does not care if he follows or not. But he is like a loyal dog: no matter how far you go, he will always be a step behind. She purses her lips, knowing that when she reaches her destination, he will be there too, he is always there, no matter how much she ignores him.
He senses a tear creep down his cheek, and pulls his sleeve across his face. For a second, he pictures her turning around, pictures a dazzling white smile plastered across her thin face. She came back to him, took his hand in hers, and they walked together. And, for a second, everything was alright again. They were happy, and together, and she noticed him. But then it was gone, and she was walking away: a black satin figure draped over the velvet backdrop.
His feet find the ground once more, and he keeps going, just like a faithful dog. He follows her through puddles, mud, stumbles quite often, but always keeps going. Because he knows that, awful as she is, she is the one last thing that he has left, and he could never leave that behind. He needs her, though she may not want him. He needs to be near her, needs to know that she is still there. He needs to know that he is not alone is this twisted and broken world.
“Momma, wait,” he squeaks, upping his pace. His shoe catches on a rise in the asphalt, and the ground comes up to meet him all too quickly. A yelp escapes his lips, to be lost in the smothering darkness. But there is no one to catch him as he goes down, no one to comfort him as he cradles his knee tenderly, no one to even look back. The figure ahead of him is all but gone, dead to the little boy who shares her blood. “Momma?” he calls out, shaking hands propping themselves onto uncertain knees.
Still, she does not turn, does not care if he follows or not. But he is like a loyal dog: no matter how far you go, he will always be a step behind. She purses her lips, knowing that when she reaches her destination, he will be there too, he is always there, no matter how much she ignores him.
He senses a tear creep down his cheek, and pulls his sleeve across his face. For a second, he pictures her turning around, pictures a dazzling white smile plastered across her thin face. She came back to him, took his hand in hers, and they walked together. And, for a second, everything was alright again. They were happy, and together, and she noticed him. But then it was gone, and she was walking away: a black satin figure draped over the velvet backdrop.
His feet find the ground once more, and he keeps going, just like a faithful dog. He follows her through puddles, mud, stumbles quite often, but always keeps going. Because he knows that, awful as she is, she is the one last thing that he has left, and he could never leave that behind. He needs her, though she may not want him. He needs to be near her, needs to know that she is still there. He needs to know that he is not alone is this twisted and broken world.