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 Park

Grahame doesn't react instantly. He doesn't move, doesn't blink and I have to force myself to look down at his chest to see if he's even still breathing. I let out a sigh of relief when I see it rise and fall.

"I don't understand..." he says, sounding strangled.

My eyes snap back to his and I feel my eyebrow rise slightly in incredulity. I know I shouldn't be wholly angry at him but I feel it all the same, feel something furious rise inside me as I stare at his strained expression.

"And what exactly don't you understand, Grahame?" I hiss, leaning closer, sinking my nails into his shoulders. I'm pleased when he winces. "What's so difficult for you to comprehend, precisely? Because if my memory serves, it takes two for something like this to happen!"

"Your implant?"

"Didn't work."

"Oh."

This is all he says for now. He seems shell shocked. I guide him over to a seat and push him down into it, not too gently. His limbs are not cooperating so he flops pathetically into the chair, his hands almost sweeping the floor, his fingers curling into his palms. There's something in this action that reminds me of a child; I get a flashback of that desolate little boy who I grew up with at the orphanage. Seeing this makes my fury at him subside. It drains out of me so completely that it's hard to ignore the wash of a new emotion, nearly as crushing as the previous; disappointment. He looks so traumatised, so lost that I feel as if I can not stay here any longer. Grahame has let me down and I realise that I didn't expect it.

"You're struggling with this." I observe. He makes a small choking sound in the back of his throat but otherwise, remains motionless.

"I won't bother you anymore. I'm - I'm going to go." I tell him quietly, reaching for the door. "Just do me a favour? Remember your promise and don't tell anyone? It'll buy me some time."

Why is there a small part of me hoping that he asks me to stay? I can't help but turn back to glance at him before I leave but he's still in the same position, stock-still, his eyes fixed ahead. Another wave of that chagrin. It was wrong of me to assume anything about him, I don't know what kind of person Grahame is. It's plain to see that he's not taking the news well and it's a reasonable reaction. It's the normal reaction. Finally, Grahame is thinking like the rest of us.

Still, when I slip out of his flat and pull the door shut behind me, I have to shake my head violently when I feel my eyes prickle as I try and not let the desolation get to me. I have no right to expect anything of him. If anything, one of us should live long enough to see our child grow up, even if it means watching from a distance. Even if it means he won't know which child it is.

I pause in the corridor. My door looks uninviting; I do not want to lock myself inside when I have so little time, so I head to the one place I know I will find a sort of solace.

There's a small patch of greenery among the factories and warehouses that we refer to as The Park. It's really only a small square of grass that comes waist high but it's the closest thing we have in the city to nature, apart from the dandelions that grow up through the cracks of pavements. This is where I head and so early in the morning, it's unoccupied. I pat the ground to find the driest area and scurry my way into it so that I can lay on my back to gaze above, hoping that I won't be disturbed.

The birds move across the sky in unison, swirling like leaves scattering in the wind. I raise a hand before me, stretching it up and away from me as far as it can go and trace patterns in the clouds, pick out shapes and imagine them to be monsters - huge, domineering, bold enough to demand your attention yet they glide by effortlessly, quietly. They look like oil paintings; soft hues of pale yellow and charcoal grey, the barest hint of the lightest purple, a slither of pink, all blended seamlessly against a canvas of periwinkle blue. Too beautiful to belong in this world with me, yet here they are.

I hear the tread of footsteps nearby, then a rustle as the person steps into my private sanctuary. I know it is Grahame even before his face interrupts my view of the sky. He cups the back of his neck with his hand, his shoulders lumped forward. He's unsure.

"Okay if I join you?"

I wait a heartbeat. "Go ahead."

I think I catch a trace of gratitude in his face before he plunges into the grass with me. He fidgets around beside me to get comfortable and then falls silent so I'm left with wondering what more I can say to him. We're separated by the most fragile of walls but I can pick out pieces of his features if I sneak a look at him. The tip of his nose, a flash of his blue eyes, chunks of his hair.

I decide to go for the easiest question first.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I followed you. Sorry."

"It's fine." I say, but I can't figure out if I mean it.

We watch the clouds together then, slipping into such absurd tranquility that I forget my situation for the present. It doesn't take long for Grahame to unknowingly shatter it in six words.

"I got you into this mess." he breathes, his voice nearly blowing away on the breeze.

I want to agree with him, that yes, he did get me into this mess and he won't be the one to face the consequences. That he's doomed me to death - that despite my unsatisfactory life, there are some things worth sticking around for; I want to have more days in the sun to lie in The Park, to find patterns and creatures in clouds, to appreciate the colours. I don't want to die. I keep my words in my mind though, I don't say anything at all.

The silence spurs him on, more agitated than before.

"Please, Amelia. I didn't mean for any of this to happen - I never dreamed that - and in my flat, just now. I didn't act the right way, I couldn't think of what to - "

"It's okay, Grahame." I whisper to the clouds because it's easier to talk to them than face him. We both know I'm lying yet he doesn't call me out on it. "It's my fault as much as it is yours. We both did this. You don't have to feel so bad, we share the blame."

A hand shoots out from his side of the grass and I watch as he wrestles with it for a moment, crushing it all until it lies flat. Then Grahame's face appears above me, eyebrows pulled together, his ocean eyes a thrashing storm.

"I wish you'd just look at me, Amelia. Don't shut me out."

His voice is starting to become dangerously loud, people might hear. Ordinarily, I would have been terrified to spend this much time with him but seeing as my death is inevitable, I may as well make the most of it. His hand goes to my face and I start, unaware that I had begun to cry until I feel his calloused fingers brush tears from my cheeks.

"It's what we do best though." I gasp, my voice cracking as I bite back another sob.

"Oh Jesus, please don't say that. I - I think I might have a plan. Only if you want to..." he mumbles, removing his hand from my cheek so that he can lie next to me again, leaning up on his elbow. His eyes are burning into my skull and I look across at him, surprised by the determination I see there. He shuffles closer, so close that his lips brush against my temple and stir strands of hair across my forehead. I ignore the flutter in my stomach at him being this near, flush red at the memory of the night in the warehouse. He doesn't notice though.

"We can run away." he speaks into my ear, practically inaudible. I'm amazed that he managed to say the words aloud as the idea is such a radical one.

I never expected that this would be an option he would consider. I thought he came here to say his farewells, to leave me to live out the next several months alone until execution took me from this world forever. It's what I would have done if I were him. But this plan of running away is almost as insane as staying. We'll be shot on the spot if they see us trying to escape the city.

As quickly as it came, my face drains of colour. "You're not serious."

He deliberately moves slowly, hovering over me to meet my gaze dead on. My hands bunch into fists, an instinctive reaction to the nearness of him and I have a wild thought that he might kiss me again. But he doesn't and I find that I'm glad about it.

"I couldn't be more serious, Amelia. Do you really think I could let you walk off to your own death? Is that the kind of person you see me as?"

I'm ashamed and answer in the only way I can think of. With honesty.

"It's what I would have done, " I confess, not able to hold his stare any longer. I take to inspecting the scar of his cheek, anything to avoid seeing the comprehension of the person that I am sparking his eyes. "I don't know a thing about you."

"That's where we differ then," he acknowledges and I feel myself letting go of a breath I never knew I was holding. "My offer still stands."

"Where could we possibly go, Grahame?" I prompt. I hear the hope in my voice and work to smother it. Hope never gets you anything. Hope only sets you up for a fall.

"I don't know," he admits, looking away from me even though our field of vision is limited by the grass. "I don't know but I'll think of something."