Tired of my World

I'm sorry that I can't be perfect. Truly, I am.

I’m sorry that I can’t be perfect. Truly, I am.

 

Counting is soothing; it’s simple and repetitive. To count you don’t really need to think you can lose yourself in the numbers; they can become your reality. That’s why when I run I always count each step I take. It also lets me know that I am moving, otherwise I feel like I’m not getting anywhere.

When I run, if I run fast enough, I can’t remember what I’m running from.

My lungs are screaming - my heart is pounding in my head; it’s all I can hear, that, and the sound of my bare feet pushing the ground away from me. The muscles in my legs are begging for me to stop. I’m vaguely aware of my mouth gasping, dragging in air down to my wretched lungs. 102, 103, 104, 105, 106….

My eyes can’t register where I am. My brain can’t work out where I’m going. My feet shriek out in protest but, at the same time, force me ever onwards. I have this strange idea in my head that if I stop something bad will happen. I think I know what, I just can’t quite remember. 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149…..

And this is just the beginning. 

It would be alright if something happened I think, something I can understand even a little. I think then I would be able to take a bit of power for myself. I think then I would be able to be something else. It sounds strange, I can’t wrap my head around it, but I think that it’s right. I think that then I would be able to be who I want to be.  

Maybe.

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My own little world shatters. I start, and look up sharply, straight into a pair of liquid brown eyes. I almost drop the book I had, seconds ago, been completely absorbed in. I am becoming aware that I’m staring but I can’t seem to look away. I am completely caught by those eyes. They are the colour of damp earth when it is reflecting the warm glow of the sun. They’re the colour of clear honey when you hold it up to the light. They are a million wonderful colours and right now they’re smiling down at me.

I think I’ve stopped breathing.

The eyes disappear. I blink. The owner of the eyes inhales deeply and tears his gaze away from the sun, before turning back to me, and then turning away again, as though he hadn’t even registered me.

It feels like all the organs have just dropped out of my body, and, gradually I focus on the rest of my surroundings; all the while not taking my own eyes of this guy.

Ah, I remember now, I’m in the park. It was a nice day and I was bored at home so I grabbed a bottle of water and threw it into my bag along with a fiver for lunch and the book I was just reading. I sat on a cold wooden bench while the world passes me by as I opened my book and fell into its pages. So what made me look up….?

‘Where the HELL have you gone you little-’

My heart misses a few beats and I literally jump out of my skin before regaining my composure. I guess that answers my question. The guy with the brown eyes is standing in the middle of the path while everybody files past him as through for all the world they couldn’t even see him. And he is shouting at the top of his lungs things I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t say inside a church.

Now that I have full function of my eyes again I’m capable of taking in the rest of his appearance. He looks…. out of place.

Really out of place, as though he belongs to a somewhere far away, but the way that he’s stood in the centre of the street you would’ve thought he owns it. I can’t help but smile.

He looks like he’s just stepped out of an Elizabethan play. He has the shirt for it; cream, with a low V-neck and buttons going only half way up, the sleeves billowing out before wrapping tightly around his arms just below his elbow. His shirt tucked loosely into his black trousers that looked like they had seen better days and lead elegantly down to his shoes that had definitely seen better days. His hair fell wildly about his shoulders as he moved, and despite its blackness it shone a deep scarlet in the sun.

And yet despite his slightly worn appearance there was not a single speck of dirt on him, I noticed with some scepticism. For some reason, that really ticked me off. I turned my eyes from him as a scowl spread unbidden across my face and stared incredulously at the people walking straight past him. Not a single person spared this wonderfully animated source of expression so much as glance.

My eyes flew black to him. He had ceased making a fuss and now stood the other side of the street, his beautiful eyes staring past me, his face darkened with irritation he let out a long sigh. His eyes closed and he shifted his wait as he stared unseeing at the floor for a few seconds, before raising his head sharply and letting his voice echo across the park again.

‘Fine. Have it your way- just don’t come running to me when She comes after your neck.’

A grim smile pulled at his lips and he stretched and started to walk, strolling past me as though he walking quietly along this whole time. He took about eight long, casual strides before he froze. The tension in his body is visible to me even through the crowd. His head twisted round, slowly. I can’t explain why, but, fear is now flooding through me; I feel like I’ve just made a terrible mistake; and I’m about to suffer the consequences.

His head stops when as his eyes come to rest on me. I can’t make out the look on his face but it scares me, I shudder involuntary. I blink, and he’s gone. I scare at the space where he was for a spilt second before I fold over the corner of the page I was on – I’m way too freaked out to stay here now. Something catches my eye as I stand and I have to stifle a scream as I realize that he didn’t disappear – he is stood directly behind me.

It’s my turn to freeze. I try to regain control of the fear that is quickly spreading throughout my body as I stare unseeingly at my book. For a second nothing happens, we remain utterly motionless while the rest of the world continues on with its daily routine. Then I hear him rest both his hand on the bench behind me and suddenly his lips are at my ear. His voice, in total contrast to earlier, now it’s low – barely more than a whisper, and as smooth as though his words were a glass sculpture, cold and perfectly precise.

‘Who are you?’

I can’t help but shudder again. I hear him pull back slightly and guess that he’s looking at me with those flawless auburn eyes. He speaks again in that exact same tone, his hands still on the back of the bench but his lips no longer at my ear.

‘Sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you.’

The pressure on the back of the bench vanishes and I turn around, taken by surprise. But he’s gone again. I stand up and search everywhere my eyes flicking from person to person, but he’s no where in sight.

So I run. I’m laughing as I run because I don’t even know what I’m running from. A strange guy who shouted a bit in the street? Yeah, he’s really terrifying. I slow down to a steady jog and head to a nearby café. I’m hungry and I have one of those cards that they stamp every time you go there in my pocket. They also have really comfy chairs. The kind that you can really sink into

The End

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