Running

 I must make myself run. Run away from all this, from what I have done, from what he wants, but still my feet are locked in place. Eyes refuse to move and every breath is a struggle. You always hear about the fight or flight response but no one really talks about the stone like lockout that's probably much more common. Some sights seemingly shock the brain so much that it can't even remember the simple tasks of expanding and contracting the lungs. Suddenly a fear of my heart stopping and my blood turning to viscous sludge worms its way into my mind. The creak of the beam from the weight swaying in the wind of the open window feels almost deafening in the silence. The grotesque nature of such a common sound coming from such a horrific situation adds a tremendous pressure to the sound. Back and forth. Back and forth he sways. Below, an overturned chair by the simple, cluttered desk creates a story. The short note, handwritten and held down by the smooth, gold rock confirms the tale. A man too far gone finds a way to go the last little bit to gone. Back and forth he sways with the spring breeze bringing the smell of fresh cut grass and hints of barbeque. The scene and smell turns the stomach and finally something moves, shame its just lunch looking to rejoin the party.

On the way to the shuttle, I reach my hand into my pocket. Fingers trace lines and faults so familiar now across a cool, smooth stone. I turn it over a couple of times feeling the one big divot on what I consider to be the bottom and instantly I'm back at home. Mom is the kitchen somewhere banging around cheap, chipped plates yelling about dinner being ready soon. Nate and I roll our eyes at the prospect of more spaghetti. Tonight is mom's night to cook and it's almost always too sweet red sauce and just prior to al dente noodles that almost crunch when bitten. We always hated those nights but the nostalgia paints a vaneer over the less than stellar cooking and makes my mouth water as if remembering fine cuisine. I'm snapped back to present by the pleasant chime of the intercom warning of a message. Boarding to begin soon. With that, I let the stone fall into it's dark little pocket and shove those memories into similar recesses in my mind. Now, the body and mind are on a different auto pilot. Ticket, check. Boarding papers, check. Travel visa and itenarary, check. I even loosen the strap of my duffle so that it can be passed to the final screening. With minor reluctance, I fish the gold colored stone from my pocket. After giving it one last look, this time more damaging memories welling up, I hurriedly stow it in another little Pocket in my bag. 

The lines at security and check in move quickly. The early morning hours are for the more seasoned traveler, with