A Brief Metaphoric Narrative

(I was a runner, once. Once upon a time, before my body grew weak, I had this strength and vitality. Remember me like that, ok?)

The day was bright already; bright and sharp like hope. In the chill of early morning, she waited on her mark for a gunshot to tell her she’d better run run run and reach the finish line.

All her life, she’d waited for this race. Every day, every minute, mental, physical, and emotional training for this—for these moments. Even as a child she knew she’d end up here, and strove to be ready.

She crouched, her heart nearly convulsing in her chest with anticipation. It wasn’t only the finish line that excited her. She loved the run, as well. Her muscles contracting and stretching, tendons tangled with bone so specifically to allow for those machine-like movements that made her feel like she had a purpose. Like there was something that she was born for. This. The track laid out before her in submission to the power of her legs and lungs and spirit; the hurdles like timber servants for no purpose but her sport.

No other runners, not even any spectators. Just her, competing against the clock.

Today was more than just sport, though. This race was the beginning of everything she’d been living for, and the end of the life she’d always known. A shiver passed through her when she realized this. Her eyes opened wider and her neck arched in resolution that was almost predatory as she trembled with pent-up energy.

Dust exploded behind her as she launched herself from the starting position, not a tenth of a second after the sound of the shot. Her feet relentlessly pounded the track as breaths came in harsh, satisfying whooshes in out in out in out of her lungs. It was as if she could feel every muscle fiber in her thighs as they pulled and pushed her knees in well-oiled circles while her calves bunched to send her feet out ahead to catch her weight and send her flying forth again.

Excitement rushed like electricity in her veins as her legs coiled to spring over the first hurdle. She cleared it easily, feeling like Artemis as she sailed over in perfect form. It seemed she was suspended indefinitely, as if time slowed down when her feet left the earth. But it sped back up again the moment she landed and with a crunching skid leapt back into her violent sprint.

One, two, three progressively higher hurdles she cleared with enough effort to feel pleased. Her heel clipped the fourth, but adrenaline destroyed any discouragement before it even began to grow, and so she only felt the thrill of the challenge.

True uncertainty only began to taint her thoughts as the fifth—the last—hurdle rushed upon her. It seemed so much taller than the last, as if the difference between the others had been doubled for this one. She was not expecting this.

The moment arrived—leap or give up now. No, giving up was not an option. In a split second she coiled and launched, determined to clear the pole. But doubt made her finely-tuned muscles waver; loosened the grip she had that controlled the balances of her raw power—balances so delicate that the slightest inconsistency could mean flight or fall.

The inconsistency was slight. So slight she didn’t feel it; didn’t realize it had occurred until the toe of her Nike brushed the wood. At that moment, she knew she would not land on her feet.

What began as a slight brush turned into a debilitating catch as she began to descend from her ambitious jump. She fell. Every shred of confidence and courage seemed to fly from her, completely out of her control just like her arms and legs and thoughts were now as the world rushed past her eyes.

A shocked exclamation bounced from her mouth, expelled with the whoosh of air driven from her lungs as she crashed shoulder-first into the asphalt. Momentum rolled her wildly some feet down the track. Pain bit into her upper arm, wrapping around and squeezing with suction-cupped arms like some mutant parasite. Other, smaller parasites sunk their teeth in all over as gravel shredded the surface of her skin and her cheek dragged harshly over the uneven ground.

To her, it seemed it took ages to get to her feet and start running again, but in reality the action was just like all the others—resolved and amazingly quick. Her boldness zipped back to her as if magnetized, and already in her mind she calculated how much time she’d lost.

She could see the finish line now, close enough to distinguish the little colored flags decorating it even though one eye was bleary and filled with dust and blood. The sight evaporated her pain. She was so close.

Her eyes flicked to the oversized neon clock that hung from the ‘Finish’ banner’s pole. She could still do this. Tilting her head like a stampeding horse, she charged forward with every reserve of strength she had.

Right before her foot crossed the line, she closed her eyes and just felt herself pass over every goal that she ever really thought she’d accomplish. Over the point on which her life divided, about which she thought ‘After that, things will really start to happen.’ ‘After that, I’ll be granted all my wishes.’ ‘After that, I’ll become fulfilled.’

Both feet crossed over and she opened her eyes. It was over. It was after. She’d done it. It wasn’t perfect and it still hurt, but she’d done it.

Joy swelled in her heart for a moment; bubbled over into laughter. But when she heard the sound of her laugh, she stopped it abruptly. It sounded flat, empty; fell dead at her feet. She looked around. No one was there. She was alone. She hadn’t expected anyone to be there, but now that she was here and there was no one, the stillness was oppressive. No breeze to make the bright flags dance; no clouds to form cheerful shapes.

Only her. Only exhaustion and throbbing, stinging pain.

Like walking into a clean glass door, it hit her: she was the only one who ever knew of this race. Her mind had formulated the goal; she had trained alone. She had even set up the finish line; hung up the clock to judge her performance. Why the hell had she thought things would change after this?

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour or more. She didn’t know; she didn’t care. The race was over. She was lost.

In shocked, baffled desperation, she spoke through the stale air to the emptiness:

“What do I do now?”

The emptiness stared back, indifferent.