Running Scared

I'm cold - so cold. I crack open my eyes, sunlight blinding me. I immediately panic at finding myself somewhere other than my cramped bedroom, my mind flying to thoughts of the run not going unnoticed after all, that the Enforcers have kidnapped me in my sleep to put me under some sort of torture. Then I see that there's a hairy arm slung over me, a head pressed against my bare shoulder. Grahame - I can see the scar on his cheek. I exhale in relief, only for a split second before I remember.

My stomach twists but I don't disentangle myself from him straight away; the sensation of his arm, the sound of his steady breathing so close to me is altogether peculiar and comforting. This is something I have never experienced before, always alone, often without basic human interaction. Shivering violently even with his overly large coat swathing me, I check the time on his wrist watch, see that we have missed breakfast. As if on cue, my stomach growls and I know I will have to be patient for the next meal in a few hours time. My head is pounding, an unpleasant taste lingering in my mouth and resting on the back of my tongue. Grahame stirs beside me and my breath catches.

His eyelids flutter, through half-opened eyes he surveys me lying next to him. He closes his eyes again with a drowsy smile, his brain groggy from sleep. The image of me being here with him registers and he jolts up with such speed that he blurs, his muscles straining against his skin, openly staring right at me in mild confusion. I'm embarrassed by our lack of attire, avert my line of sight to an old oil stain on the floor and pull the coat tighter around me.

I can hear him though, hear the first thing that flies from his mouth.

"Oh shit." he says softly.

He's not wrong. It should have been my first thought when I saw him but for some reason, my face flames and I squirm in the drafty warehouse, wishing I could be anywhere but here. My hand moves to my left arm, to where the contraceptive implant has been inserted. Every woman gets one, regularly has a renewal every couple of years. Though the thick material of the coat is in the way, I know it's there, a constant fixture in my body. For once, I'm glad it's there.

Grahame has picked up on my reaction and is trying his best to double back on his words.

"I mean - it's not that I - Amelia!"

I've turned away from him and am hurriedly pulling on my trousers, mortified that I'm even in this position. I can sense him staring at me still as I wriggle into my shirt, my body too numb to feel the swish of the fabric against my bare back. I wish he wouldn't watch me. Through all of the embarrassment, I'm ashamed - I feel rejected, which is a completely illogical reaction. This shouldn't have even happened. I try to control my breathing; inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling. I will not cry. Not here, not in front of him.

"Amelia, come on! I didn't mean it that way." Grahame pleads from over my shoulder. I'm already lacing up my left boot, searching desperately for the other at the same time.

"Looking for this?"

I spin on the spot, narrow my eyes at the sight of him holding my right boot in his hands. He's still undressed but I march towards him, a hand outstretched expectantly, staring anywhere but at him.

"Give it back, Grahame. Give it back now." I say, wincing at the break in my voice.

He shakes his head, that dark hair ruffled from sleep. His face is set in grim determination but it wavers at the sound of my distress, his body shifting as if to move closer. He thinks better of it though and holds my shoe above his head, out of my reach.

"Not until you listen."

"NO!" I shout, glancing around wildly when I hear the sound of scuffling from outside in the street. Factory workers on their break. I lower my voice to a furious whisper, disturbed by the terribleness of what we have done.

"This was wrong." I hiss, jabbing a finger sharply at the space between us. "This is wrong. It was only ever supposed to be a run. That was all it was ever meant to be, Grahame."

Saying the words seems to confirm it all to me, makes it all the more real. I break down on the inside, a flood straining against its confines of my skin and threatening to tear me apart. My body sags a little, my fingers catching in my knotted hair and although I'm trying not to show it, I know my face is flickering from one painful expression to the next. He is looking at me with such pity, I can barely stand it.

Grahame doesn't hesitate any more. His arms wind around me for an instant, nearly lulling me into a state of the barest relief - I find myself sinking into him for a moment - but I manage to slide my hands along his chest and shove with whatever strength I have left. He staggers backwards, bewildered, nearly absurd-looking without his clothes if the situation weren't so solemn.

We don't speak for a while, stuck in this ludicrous stand off. When I notice that Grahame's skin has turned a stark white, the veins underneath weaving blue patterns that I can see from where I'm stood, I force my stiff joints into action, grab his pile of clothes and coat and throw them at him.

"You're not doing this to me. You're not finding a way to - to root yourself inside of me. We're safer alone. We live alone. All of us."

He has nothing to say, or maybe he can't find the right thing to say, but he shakes his head frantically, reaching a hand out for me, his bundle of clothes slipping out of the grasp of his other.

I flinch away from him and jam my hat over my hair, striding to the door of the warehouse. As soon as my hand meets the cold steel of it, the sounds of outside trickling in through the gap, I turn back to him.

"Get changed and go home, Grahame." I say in a flat voice before squeezing past the door, eyes already stinging from tears.