Razorblade Regrets And Revenge Renegades

I don't know where I'm going; all I know is that I'm walking away from the crowded parking lot, dodging cars that cross my path. I feel stupid, because for some unknown reason, I've gotten myself into that hole again and I can't stop the tears from filling my eyes. They're not falling; I won't let them as I convince myself that I'm better than that.

The wind takes my mind off of the situation for a moment, making my wish that I was smart enough to bring a sweater. I cross my arms in effort to warm myself up, noticing that the darkened streets are now unfamiliar. There's a street light flickering in the distance, revealing the silhouettes of human figures huddled underneath. I'm evaluating whether or not to turn back, but my stubborn head has already decided not to. The exaggerated dangers of the city don't seem to bother me- I've lived here all my life, and nothing has ever happened to me.

Instead, I cross the street for further contact from the unknown. My gut is doing somersaults; I'm feeling oddly dangerous. I feel confident, at first- Until I hear the whistling.

Don't make eye contact- It only provokes them.

I look up just long enough for them to notice, and I hate myself for it. My feet are shuffling faster than before, trying to get away from them, but the hairs on the back on my neck tell me that they're following me. They're calling me dirty names, and I can tell they're doing it all for their own amusement. My fingers curse them from behind my back; I'm trying to show them that it doesn't bother me. But it just makes them call louder, because now they know that they have my attention.

I'm not sure who starts running first; me or them, but I know that it makes me feel weak- I'm supposed to be stronger than this. I know that at this point in time, I should let my ego go and just worry about my well-being. But even the running turns into a contest, and of course I'm determined to keep ahead.

At least I'm relieved to see the cemetery in the distance; Not because I'm an angsty, sadistic teenager, but because it's the one place I can locate and get back home from. Tom and I used to hang out there. Mostly because it was safer than most parks in our area. Most people are afraid of cemeteries.

My lungs feel like they're collapsing, but I know that if I stop, I lose. The boys in the baggy t-shirts from under the flickering light are still running, just as quickly as I am.

I don't bother going all the way around to the gate; Instead, I jump the chicken-wire fence, and try to regain my steps quickly. I'm wondering how much longer my body can hold up. My throat is stinging, and my lungs are burning, and my un-athletic legs are rubbery. I'm praying to a God that I never thought existed that I don't fall.

My feet are catching on tree roots and eroded tombstones, but I'm still being followed. I don't want to, but I'm starting to yell for help. I'm not even thinking anymore, all I'm doing is running. I try my best to keep my eyes forward; I keep telling myself not to look back.
I'm letting the tears fall from earlier. I've lost my usual composure, and at this point, I don't even know what I'm crying for.

I look back, only to see the baggy t-shirt guys closing in on my from thre different angles, and my legs are suddenly burning up. I can't push myself any further and some small inch of me just wants to stop and curl up in a ball.

I run into something and scream loudly as hands come out are grab me from infront. Out of instinct, arms and legs start flying out everywhere, trying to catch something; anything that would hurt.

Out of the yelling, I manage to make out my name, and the word 'stop'. It's close, but I'm still freaking out and screaming.

"Sienna- Stop! It's me, it's okay," I hear.

The message suddenly sinks in and I look up. I'm brought back down to Earth when I realize it's Tom who's shaking me ferociously. I find myself shaken and confused, looking around to find that the baggy t-shirt guys are still standing a few feet away from us.

"Common man, we was just foolin'; we wasn't hurting her," one of the t-shirt guys says.

I suddenly find myself digging my fingernails into Tom's sleeves, with the knowledge that it was the one thing that's safe.

"I don't give a shit what you were doing, just get out of here," Tom screams, and I can feel his body tense up.

"Aww- Common man, Don't be trippin'! We was just playin'..."

"Well go play on your own turf, man, before I call the cops," Tom says calmly, pulling out his cell.

The baggy t-shirt guys look amonst themselves, I suppose trying to conclude what to do. I imagine them silently begging eachother to leave. After a marathon of cussing and flying limbs, they slowly start to leave, one by one. And of course, the last can't leave without muttering a witty remark about 'stupid rich kids'.

And now, even though my throat is stinging, and my lungs are burning, and my un-athletic legs are rubbery, I feel safe. Finally, I'm the one place where I belong; the one place where I don't need any composure. I'm still glued to Tom's chest, my chin laying near his collarbone, my eyes set on his a few inches higher than mine. He's smiling at me; almost chuckling under his breath as his hands run through my matted, messy hair.