Status: 14th May 2015: writing up two important chapters for later on in the story so I have something to work towards :)

Running Scared

The Cafe

A rundown cafe, a sign proclaiming all day breakfasts, is nestled between abandoned factories - this uninspiring location is where we come to collect our daily meals. The sign is misleading because we do not have the option of all days breakfasts - no all day anything. Our meals are meager at best; three a day, small portions, nothing else. It must have been from when the world was a better place than it is now and the majority of us weren't starving. I'm not sure why the sign is still there, perhaps the owner didn't have the heart to paint over it, wanting to provide us all with the notion of happier times? There are similar cafe's to this one all over the city, one of the few places where work is available, if you can get it.

Burying my face into my scarf, I catch a few rogue snowflakes in my hair as I make my way to the entrance of the cafe. There's something about the pearly grey sky that I don't like and it sets my teeth on edge; no doubt a snow storm will arrive shortly, forcing us to lock ourselves into our tiny-roomed flats for days. If there is one thing worse than wandering the streets of our over-crowded city, it is being made to stay indoors. It takes away what is left of our freedom.

Pushing through the steel doors, I feel the heat smack into my face like a brick wall, the kind of heat that makes you gasp for breath. As usual, the cafe is overflowing with people, shuffling feet and bent heads. I join the jostling queue for our dinner; this is one of the clever ways in which the government can regulate food output. It enables them to make sure that no one is sneaking extras that they can't afford.

When I reach the window, the head chef - Bob - greets me with his usual squint-eyed expression, caused from the sweat that is constantly pouring down his face. I hand over a rumpled food coupon, the only currency which allows you to purchase food, and Bob blinks hard at me, swapping the coupon for a tray that he roughly shoves through the tiny gap at the bottom of the window. The rest of us and the food, constantly separated by a pane of glass.

I whisk away my evening meal, keen to eat; half a bread roll, a small bowl of meat broth, a glass of tepid water. It isn't enough, not nearly enough, but it will have to do. Weaving past tables of soundless people, I locate a spare place and drop heavily into the seat. I'm sat blowing carefully at the broth on my spoon, not wanting to waste a single drop, when Grahame Elliot slides onto the bench opposite me with his tray. We acknowledge each other with a cursory nod and I go back to savouring every bite of my food.

I wouldn't go as far as saying that Grahame is my friend; more of an acquaintance. Despite being neighbours, the doorway of his flat right across from mine, we have never struck up a conversation that has lasted over five minutes. Looking at him, I suppose he would be described as handsome - not handsome enough to be granted permission for children; there's the crook on the bridge of his nose, that faint scar trailing down his cheek and disappearing at his jawline. They seek out nothing short of perfection - but that sort of talk could get you thrown into prison. We are not allowed to discuss the attractiveness of other citizens of the Community because that might lead to interest and interest will lead to affection and affection may as well mark you out for the death penalty.

Still, his eyes are a shade of blue that appeals, drawing you in without you realising, and his face has that kind of look that would be pleasant if he weren't always so downcast. This is something I don't begrudge him though - we all share the same expression.

"Amelia."

I glance up from my bowl, astounded that he is talking to me. This is a first; meal times for us are generally quiet times. Food occupies the mind in a way that conversation cannot. Warily, I stoop over my meal, trying to disguise our communication. We're allowed to talk but I'm frightened that people will read more into this then there is. Without taking my eyes off my spoon, I speak.

"Grahame?"

There's the sound of a bowl being pushed away, a spoon clattering onto the table.

"Do you want to come with me later. I'm going on a run."

I know what he is referring to. Alcohol is illegal but there are people who specialise in its production in these areas. They make quite a profit, too. It's no secret among the citizens; sometimes, a person is assigned the job of going on runs for others, the people who are deemed reliable all have to draw straws. It would look suspicious if too many people turned up at the same flat, it would draw in too much unwanted attention. I'm not sure I want to be risking my life to go on a run with Grahame though, I never readily volunteer for the job - the only thing you get from it is an extra bottle for yourself. He must be able to see the way my body stiffens because I sense him lean closer, his whisper so low I have to concentrate to hear.

"Before you tell me no, just listen. It's my first run. I can't do it alone and you're - " his voice drops even lower. "You're the only person I think I can trust."

I don't know how he managed to get this impression of me but I make a mental note to consciously get rid of it. Getting close to others puts me in jeopardy. Perhaps it is because we were both brought up in the orphanage that he feels as if he can have faith in my loyalty? I force myself to look up into his face. He's tugging his fingers through his dark hair, awkward and bashful. Willingly admitting confidence in another is something none of us do well.

"Only crazy people ask others to join them on a run." I tell him, seeing the disappointment flash in his face. "But I'll help you just this once. No more after this, I swear."

Grahame doesn't openly celebrate this information but rewards me by discreetly handing the last morsel of his bread roll to me under the table. There's also something in his face that has changed and after a prolonged moment of staring, I pinpoint what it is. It's his eyes that give him away, I realise. It's as if he is smiling without actually smiling.

He stands to leave and walks behind me, pretending to drop his spoon. He doesn't make a show of it because he doesn't have to; no one is paying attention to his clumsiness but he's cautious in the wake of so many witnesses. As he bends to retrieve it, he mutters instructions near my elbow.

"I'll be at your door tonight when the sun sets. Listen out for a knock."

With that, I feel the breeze he stirs as he moves on and I stare down into my empty bowl with uneasiness. I probably shouldn't have agreed so readily to accompany him. If we get caught, and it's been known to happen, there will be serious charges made against us, maybe even lead to us being hanged in the Court - an aptly named building and its adjacent concrete yard where sentencing and trials commence.

Still, I've felt oddly jittery for weeks now. I find I can't sit or lie down, I can't just do nothing without fidgeting. I've been restless, the long days a consistent struggle for me to get through. Maybe this run is exactly what I need? The adrenaline from it will be enough to keep me appeased for years.

I nod, trying to convince myself that this is what I've been seeking. I drop my tray, bowl and all, into the enormous soapy basin on my way out, the washing team ignoring me as they scrub out dirty crockery and cutlery with grim determination.

Outside, the blizzard is long underway. Shivering violently, never able to adapt easily from one extreme temperature to another, I sink into myself during the journey home, anticipation and dread for tonight running through me.

I hope that the snow calms, even for a couple of hours, because the one rule for a run is to finish it, no matter what happens.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm kind of really into writing this. SO EXCITED ABOUT IT, HOPING THAT FUTURE ME WILL FINISH IT AND WON'T LEAVE IT HANGING.