Trail Runners

Fierce waves of wind crashed upon the island and the mainland causing the once still world to shake and tremble. Trees danced in the wind, their emerald leaves glinting in the moonlight. The moon peaked over the tree line, scared to look at its rippling reflection in the salty blue green water, under the old vine covered bridge. The stars twinkled in the sky, every so often a shooting star streaking through the dark sky disappearing beyond the eyes reach. To me, this was the mainland; to others it was Emerald City.

During the day, the city flocked with life. People bustled about doing whatever it was that they needed to get done for the day. It wasn’t a small town, but it wasn’t a large city either. It was the home to nine hundred and fifty-four people. However that was only counting the mainland.

Emerald Island was the island that I had been staring at for nine minutes while leaning up against the hood of my sleek silver Volvo. Only six people lived on the island: the Chaucer family, and my father, Dr. Neil A. Tresscott.

Emerald Island was the island just off the mainland, covered in trees with emerald leaves that reflected in the salt water turning it a slight shade of green – which is how it got its name. It was always a quiet place, the only noise coming form the wind whispering to the trees or the sound of water clashing with the sandy shore or rocky cliffs.

Pale moonlight streamed through the trees, illuminating the lavender wildflowers at the end of the bridge, causing them to cast a pale purplish, silver glow upon everything around them. The end of the bridge seemed to flawlessly turn into a gravel dirt road, disappearing into the green sea of trees. The air smelt of salt water and wildflowers, an aroma unlike any other. It was the type of scent that you could never forget; it stuck with you until the day you died. That was one of the things I loved about this place, it was unforgettable.

I had, however, forgotten how beautiful this place was at night. It had been at least four years since the last time I had been back here, back home. I was eager to be home, but I couldn’t seem to make myself cross the bridge, allowing the gravel to crunch under my tires as I made my way home. It wasn’t like I had a phobia of crossing bridges; I just didn’t know what to expect as soon as I crossed the gravel threshold.

I had left this place without a sound, on a night much like tonight hoping that I could leave this place in my past and never have to come back. It was a selfish idea, but at the time it didn’t matter to me. However, I was here now, and I couldn’t run away again. I had too much pride for that.

Besides, I needed this. I needed to be here.

“Keylie.” the sound of my name made me jump, and I looked around to see who had spoken to me. I had been staring so intently at the island that I hadn’t even noticed the tall, gray haired man that had walked across the bridge and was now standing right in front of me.

“Dad,” I greeted, smiling at him before giving him a hug.

Returning the hug and smile, he sat next to me on the hood of the car after I had moved over to make room for him. “How’s life?” he asked, putting his arm around me.

I sighed running a hand through my hair. “I’m getting by, if that’s what you’re asking.” I replied. Now that statement was a complete lie. I was not getting by; I was barely getting by. I was having a hard time getting up some mornings, but he didn’t need to know that. No one needed to know that.

“You need to talk about it sometime, sweetheart.” he replied.

“And if I don’t want to?” I questioned. I was a stubborn person. I didn’t like to talk about my feelings much like every other girl. Sometimes, I think that is why my father never seemed to try to figure out every detail of my life, like my mother.

My father pulled me closer, hugging me tight. “There’ll come a day, sweetheart, when it’ll catch up to you. And you won’t be able to hold it all in. You’ll have a breakdown, like your mother…”

“I’m not mom, dad. I’m Keylie.” I groaned. “Besides, that’s why I keep running.”

I guess, in some way, I was way too much like my mother. My father often told me how much I reminded him of mom. I never really seemed to understand why, because the only thing I seemed to have in common with her was my hair and eyes, and other than that I thought we weren’t alike at all. According to my dad however, I was just as independent and determined as she was.

My mother had left shortly after I did. This wasn’t a surprise though; my parent’s relationship had been on the brink of extinction for a while. Apparently, I was the thing that was keeping them from getting a divorce, and as soon as I was gone, there was nothing stopping my parents from getting one.

I haven’t talked to my mother since then, because to her, I was just another reminder of the life she hated. She didn’t exactly hate me per say, we just never really saw eye to eye. She disapproved of the fact that I ran more than I studied, or that I loved running more than I liked boys; I just wasn’t the beauty pageant daughter she always wanted. It didn’t bother me that she tried every opportunity she had to dress me up and treat me like a doll, and half the time I couldn’t say no to her big, childish green eyes.

My dad shook his head before getting up, and walking over to the driver’s side of the car. “Come on, let’s go home.”

I hadn’t seen my father since I left four years ago and yet it felt like I hadn’t been gone at all. That was the thing about being home; you could always come back and be safe and loved, no matter what you had done before.

I sighed, following my fathers actions, the wind blowing my mahogany red hair in my face as I got in the passenger side. My father started the car, his smile broadening at the purring of my engine. Cars were my father’s second love, second to me. “This is a good car, Keylie.”

“Thanks,” I smiled, “I picked it out myself from a used car lot.”

I had been extremely proud of myself for finding this car. I didn’t know squat about cars, and finding one that sounded like it was decent was a feet for me. Better yet, finding a car my father would approve of. He was always stressing that my first car that I bought on my own should be safe and one that has a good sounding engine. I had managed to find a car with both of those requirements.

The gravel crackled under the tires as we made our way up the hill towards the old looking houses hidden behind a massive grove of trees. If you didn’t know the island was occupied, you would have no idea that there were two houses built on the island until you stumbled upon them. Once you stumbled upon them however, you were awestruck by their sheer size, and how it was possible to hide such a massive structure behind trees that were only as tall as the houses were. Despite the house’s massive size, they had quaint features that drew you in like a fly to honey.

We passed the white brick house on the right — I wouldn’t call it white per say, it’s covered in dirt so it looks more like a grayish blue — all of its windows were dark and dreary. Everything around the house seemed to be a dull color except for the shiny orange motorcycle parked in the driveway in front of the black sedan.

Instantly I dreaded buying my silver Volvo. It would look so out of place across from the gloomy house. The house on the left wasn’t much better either.

Gravel continued crunching as the car pulled into the driveway of a very dirty grey brick house. The once colorful wildflowers that grew in the flowerbeds around the house were either dead or overgrown, adding to the unkempt look of the house. It didn’t look as dull and gloomy as the house across the road, but it still looked as uninhabited. The only way you could tell that either place was lived in was by the cars parked in the driveway. The headlights of my car reflected off the back of the black sports car in front of us. Beyond the car, a dark abyss loomed, however, I knew it was the beginning of a tree line spanning a lifetime away.

“Welcome home,” my dad said, happily, getting out of the car and heading for the trunk.

I stepped out of the car too, and headed for the already open trunk. My dad had already pulled out my black duffel bag and strapped it around his shoulders, and was currently pulling out the second of my three suitcases. I reached in and heaved the third suitcase out.

Fireflies light up the night as I made my way to inside the house, following closely behind my father. Inside the house wasn’t much better than the outside. Sure, it was immaculately clean, but it was dusty. I sneezed, groaning afterwards.

This dust was going to have to go.

“Bless you,” Neil said lightly leaning on the stair railings.

I only nodded at him once before slipping past him. It only took one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I had the east bedroom that faced out towards the ocean. The room was familiar; the light green walls, wooden floors, the bed shoved up against the window, the sheer curtains covering the window, the shelf of books right near the top of the ceiling that went all the way around my room along with two other shelves just above my bed, the T.V next to the bed served as both an entertainment set and a night stand, and a modern desk in the far corner – these were pieces of my sanctuary. If I wasn’t found outside running, I was found here with my nose shoved inside a thick book.

Neil left me alone to unpack and get settled; something that my mother would have never been able to have done. It was nice to be alone, even if I had only been with Neil for less than twenty minutes. I didn’t have to smile and pretend that I wasn’t falling apart; a relief to finally sink into the bed and stare at the floor avoiding the third duffel bag at my feet. I couldn’t put off opening the unloading the bag, as much as I wanted to, but I couldn’t cry. I would save that for bedtime, when I had time to think about it.

I shook my head, removing all thoughts of that from mind standing up and walking over to one of the other bags. I unzipped it, slowly pulling out the articles of clothing and putting them away, repeating the process over and over numbly. When I finished putting my clothes in the small walk in closet, I collapsed onto the bed passing out before I had a chance to even think about her, the girl whose duffle bag was sitting next to my bed on the floor – I would surely trip over it in the morning.

~~

I didn’t sleep well that night, even after passing out as soon as my head hit the pillow. The eerie whooshing of the wind across the roof wouldn’t stop haunting me. Somehow, through it all, I managed not to think about the girl who owned the duffel bag, pulling the thick comforter over my head the moment her name popped into my head. But I couldn’t fall back to sleep until well after one a.m.

It was around five when my cell phone woke me up, telling me that it was time to get up and go running. Thick fog was all I could see out my window, but that didn’t stop me from running. I vaulted myself out the door, tying my hair into a ponytail in the process. I couldn’t wait to start running. I couldn’t wait to get away from everything.

I ran all the way down the gravel road stopping at the opening of the trail I knew so well, only to frown in disappointment when I got there. The trail was overrun by weeds, rotten branches and tree trunks, as well as other shrubs. The sign right next to the trail had fallen over. The wooden square engraved with the words “Keylie’s Trail” was rotting, ready to fall apart at any given moment.

I stood in front of the trail for some time, until I saw a figure approaching. The person was wearing an orange shirt making it easy for me to follow him as he ran into the underbrush, exposing a hidden trail. The person was already far in front of me, moving at a fast pace, completely oblivious to my presence behind him when I entered the trail and started running.

The whooshing sound continued as I ran, the tress blurring into a mix of greens and browns. The intoxicating scent of seawater and lilies filled my nostrils and mouth as I breathed. Three steps for every inhale, two for every exhale, I told myself while trying to set a steady rhythm, all the while keeping up with the man clad in orange.

It didn’t take long for me to fall into my natural rhythm, letting the beating of my heart be my metronome. I was running away from everything, escaping into my own little world. Some people might find this action cowardly, but to me it wasn’t.

“Running is not a means of escape. It’s the beat of your heart moving your legs, causing you to live,” I told myself calmly, shaking a stray piece of red hair from my face.

I had no idea where this trail went, but I kept following the runner in front of me. Later I found out that the trail lead to the cliff overlooking the cove, following right along the edge as the trail bent around the shape of the island allowing me to see the ocean while running. The trail then left the side of the cliffs, looping all the way around my father’s house as well as the gloomy house across the street, before exiting off onto the gravel dirt road, right in front of the nonexistent opening of Keylie’s Trail.

I had no doubt in my mind of who the runner was. I knew perfectly well that he lived in the house across mine, and that he probably rode the orange motorcycle, but even that didn’t convince me to talk to him. Instead, I kept my distance, but still keeping him within my sight.

I couldn’t force myself to say his name out loud either, settling for thinking it instead.

The trail ended up being roughly eight miles, and not once was there a rotten log or overgrown weed in the middle of the trail. The trail was in perfect condition, almost as if someone ran it every chance they could. I knew I would be, but I would have to be careful, the owner of the trail was extremely fast, having pushed me to my limit just trying to keep his orange shirt from disappearing into the sea of leaves.

By the time I finished running, it was a quarter till six. I trudged into the gray bricked house, my legs begging for me to sit down. I was still out of breath when I made it to my room. I took the bag of bathroom necessities into the adjacent bathroom to clean myself up after running eight miles. I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed my now damp, tangled hair. Maybe it was the light, but I already looked unhealthy. My green eyes seemed hollow and empty, my skin pale – it was very clear, almost translucent-looking.

I turned away from my pallid reflection, forcing other thoughts into my head. I couldn’t afford to degrade myself in that way or I would get sent to some therapist for sure. That was the last thing I wanted to do, talk about my feelings. Instead, I found my thoughts drifting towards my trail, thinking of ways to restore it to its former glory.

Breakfast with Neil was a quiet event. He kissed me on the forehead before he left for work at the hospital. I kissed him back on the cheek, and told him goodbye and to be safe. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs and examined the kitchen, with its dark wooden floors, granite counter tops, pale blue walls, and pale yellow cabinets. Nothing was changed. Neil and I had painted the cabinets twelve years ago in an attempt to bring life to the empty house.

I frowned when I realized that the runner from this morning had helped too, taking the brush after we had finished running it down my face and onto my shirt smearing a straight yellow line of paint on my body. I remembered taking my own paint brush and dipping it into the paint can - in retaliation - allowing a large glob of yellow paint to gather on the brush, before letting it land on his head. Yellow paint rolled off his shaggy brown hair and onto his face and shirt as I laughed hysterically and pointed.

It became an all out war after that display of unruly behavior.

I smiled at the memory, allowing it to linger.

I stood up abruptly, shaking my head as if it would magically make the memory disappear and never come back – I couldn’t be thinking about that kind of stuff. As I put the dishes in the dishwasher, I heard the distinct sound of a motorcycle being turned on. I shuffled into the front room, peaking out the curtains. I watched silently as a man mounted the orange bike, the helmet blocking me from seeing his face, but I already knew who it was.

He turned and looked in my direction as if somehow feeling my stare. I squeaked softly, falling to the ground as if someone had fired a gun at the window. The unmistakable sound of gravel crunching hit my ears as I slowly picked myself off the wooden floor moments later.

I was pretty sure that he hadn’t seen me, but deep down I knew that I wish he had.

Brian Chaucer, why must you haunt me so?