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My feet hit the pavement hard, the tension in my body making its way out via my feet. I forced my legs to move, pounding them over and over again onto the sidewalk, pushing myself forward.
The upbeat electronica song played loudly in my ears and allowed me to keep a perfect pace, the music driving me, not allowing me to slow down. My legs burned and my chest heaved, but I pushed through.
It was only pain.
Pain could be overcome. Pain could be conquered.
I needed to run.
Ever since I was young, running had been what I’d known. I run to escape and when I needed space, I found delight in it. The only thing at that point and time that I needed to worry about was forcing one foot in front of the other and pushing my body forward. Always forward. I never looked back.
My mother’s voice echoed in my head.
“Don’t stop running. No matter what. Never stop. Don’t stop running.”
“But Mommy...” I sniffed, clutching at her dress as she lifted me up and placed me through the window. There were raised voices in another room, one of which I recognized as my fathers. A gunshot rang out loudly from what sounded like the kitchen.
“Run Chelsea, run.”
I took one last look at my mom, her eyes pleaded with me to move. I closed my eyes tightly, squeezing out the last tears and turned away. I took off toward the woods behind our house, passing into the cover just as I heard the second shot echo through the dark night.
I didn’t stop running.
I never stopped running.
I don’t remember much about my life before that night. Sometimes I wish I had more memories—memories of a family that loved me, memories of two parents who were willing to give me the world. I figured it was my mind’s way of protecting itself, blocking out the good so it wouldn’t make me weak so I couldn’t think about what I could have had. Too bad it hadn’t been able to protect me from the years of my life that followed.
Images of my parents flashed through my eyes, closely followed by the faces of the numerous foster parents that came after.
Alcohol, drugs, guns, death.
Just run them out, I told myself.
I wanted to numb everything. The only thing I wanted to feel was my heart beating and my muscles burning.
I caught sight of the clubhouse up ahead and picked up the pace even more. My lungs screeched for air and the muscles in my body all screamed at me to stop as I sprinted toward the compound’s front gates. The song in my headphones was quickly forgotten, the only beat now was the thump, thump, thump, of my tennis shoes against the concrete sidewalk and the erratic thrumming of my heart as it pounded against my chest.
I hit the wire fence with a clang and clutched at it, my fingers looping through the wide diamond-shaped spaces. For at least a minute, I stayed like that. Clinging onto the massive fence for dear life as my legs slowly began to get feeling back in them.
“You all right, Chel?”
I blinked through the sweat that was now stinging my eyes to find Ham had stepped out of the gates and was staring at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Fine … just … catching … breath …” I managed to squeak out. He screwed up his nose as his eyes scanned me, but finally nodded and stepped back to his guard duties.
Ham was a sweet guy, older than the other two prospects at twenty-three, a late bloomer you might say. His full name was Hamlet. The patch members have been having a field day with that one since he joined. I guess his parents were both English majors with a weird love for Shakespeare—he also had a sister called Ophelia and a brother called Romeo. He grinned and bore it though and so far he seemed like a good guy.
I felt my heart finally slowing down and air began to flow more freely into my lungs. I pushed to my feet, my legs shaking and slipped through the small gap in the gate where Ham was standing watch with another prospect, Neil. It was just enough space to get a body through but not a car or even bike for that matter. I lifted my hand just to say hi and carried on to the clubhouse.
I climbed onto the deck and pushed through the bi-folding doors to the side of the main room. I frowned at the bottles that were scattered around from last night’s party. I wish these guys would learn to pick up after themselves occasionally. As much as I loved it there, sometimes it was more like a frat house full of teens as opposed to a clubhouse full of grown men.
I huffed, forcing my mind to ignore it for now and checked the time on my watch. I was on breakfast this morning. It was just after six and a lot of the men were early risers, even with the amount of alcohol they consume some nights.
I shot to my room and had a two minute shower, just enough to wash away the sweat that clung to my body and threw on a pair of track pants that sat low on my hips and a crop top that showed my stomach. With summer basically gone and autumn showing its face, the weather was in that weird maybe hot, maybe cold phase. Slightly annoying when you were picking out what to wear for the day. I figured it was easier to grab a sweatshirt and tie it around my waist because if I was cold, than wear shorts and have to go back to my room and put some warm pants on.
Not just a pretty face, right?
The club girls took turns with the daily chores. It worked for us and it meant that with everything spread evenly, we still had most of the day free.
