Chapter 3 (The Chase)

"What have I done to myself" I quietly whisper as my left foot slides onto the escalator, quickly followed by the rest of my lumbering body. Was is it about the smell of a book store that stirs something within me. And on this particularly warm day I am practically inhaling the transparent yellow glue holding all those screaming pages together in one simple, contained box, only to be heard as the next patron flips through. I imagine quietly, arms and legs reaching with all their might through the paper, loud screams and calming seductive whispers.
Brown eyes. Which ones? I don't even remember who I'm looking at anymore, except that it's not myself. Brown eyes. So full of shit, or sweet smooth dark chocolate. A passerby makes a comment about my tattoo and I nod a gentle Thank you and smile, but my mind is not in this book store. My mind does not even know where it would want to be if it had the choice to be anywhere but this book store. Perhaps thousands upon thousands of miles away in a cement jungle or just a few towns over, hiding behind thick glasses and piles of philosophy books. I quickly find that which I need, scoot back to the escalator, down to the register to pay and put myself back in my car, just to finish out the day as if it were any other. The sun is hot, but I force myself back into the overzealous air conditioning, back down in front of the blistering and bright screen, continuing on with my copy and paste routine.
It was as soft as the first kiss you give your new born child. As painful as hearing its first shrill cry and as heart breaking as watching it grow and leave your side. All the questions that I could have asked and willingly refused my lips to move so as not to let them casually slip out. Just refrain, don't speak, don't laugh or yawn. At any moment the Why's could spring upon you and you'll have no control, no defense. Protect yourself with the pen, keep writing and don't let your lips part even for that of Santa and his elves. But if I could've spoke, what would I have said? The questions, I can barely even put on this page, simply out of fear for the reader. Could they have turned brown eyes black, and my own green to blue. Turned your perfect Friday night outfit from strategically placed and pinned to piled and crumpled on the bedroom floor. Or turn the brighest of upturned faces dark and full of subtle shadow. You ask to be "filled in" but you're really just waiting for the juicy parts, that's all you really want to know. All the mindless banter filters through your system and you pay as close attention as your poor weary mind will allow. Try to ignore the motion of your hand or the rapid rate of breathing. If you ignore it, it will go away right.... Focus.
The smell of glue revists me in my sleep. I am standing among some of my most favorite novels and trying to decide which one to purchase, even though I know full well that I already own them all. I begin to pull the books from the shelf, shredding the pages one by one, mad and frustrated that I can not just chose one novel to take home with me. My small hands create so much damage that just in this one aisle it seems as though I have been working on shredding these books for decades, but then those catcher's mits. Brown eyes. I am halted by the inkling feeling that he's here, but who. I can hear his footsteps in the nearby stairwell, the pounding is rhythmic and numbing and for a moment I forget the necessary chase. My legs move underneath me, but my mind stays stoic and rigid. I awake to my feet throwing me down the stairs, the pounding as loud as ever. Tonight I am determined not to let this escape me, but my legs have become motionless, broken by the violence of my dream. I remain, still and motionless in my bed, hearing the slow pounding in my mind and trying to determine from which direction it emanates. It must be a neighbor, a little overexcited with his new flat screen television or his collection of Calypso. My mind becomes Rashmonian, seeking in each corner of this one way street from as many angles as my mind can stretch itself in to just from my window. These stars, brown eyes. And again my mind spins, the pounding becomes a distant memory.
I have found myself buried in college ruled lines. The black pen I have confiscated from work the week before is slightly chewed on the end and my fingers anxiously pull upon and replace the cap from the butt in a slow rhythm. I have reread this one single line about twenty times and yet still I can not find what it was that I meant to write. "Why come back". Oh! the Why's and all the many reasons why they are specifically instructed not to escape my mouth. But my pen, I can not stop. I have created pages and pages of questions and queries, inquiries and interrogations. One basically written upon another as I begin the next before I can even finish the last. The black ink has found itself smeared on my palms, thus on the pillow and blankets. I try to rub it away only to make it worse, but I suppose that's why someone somewhere gave us the washing machine. My face feels wet, but I can not quite comprehend what could be causing it to be so. I haven't cried in months, and at this precise moment, there is nothing to provoke me to do so. I bring myself to the mirror and my eyes have become a crystal clear blue, and the black has dragged itself, as that of fingernails trying to save a life in peril, down my overly pink cheeks. I don't even own a box of tisses, why would I. Brown eyes.
I stumble to kitchen, but am almost too positive that I have cleaned myself out of red wine. Three bottles are lined up on the counter, broken and punctured corks still remain in the mouths, but each one is bone dry. I hang my head, mostly in shame, but also in frustration and worry that I may not get back to sleep tonight. Not a single cigarette lingers anywhere in my home, only ample packs of spearmint gum. No big deal, I don't need the red wine to sleep, just read for a while and eventually your head will fall to the side.
I lift up my head, back in the stairwell and the sound of my breath echoes off every inch of metal from bottom to top. I hear his footsteps scurrying like a New York rat, but I can't tell if he's moved North or South. I look up trying to peer between the minimal space separating the floor from the staircase, but I see nothing to provide me with any evidence. The longer I linger in this spot, the farther he gets from me. My mind has a moment of melancholy and tries to decide if I care so much that he is far away, debating whether or not to simply go back to the shelves of book and continue on with the shredding of pages. But I move to find him, he probably went down, if we went up would he only be trapping himself on the roof? That is, if there even is a roof to this building.
I run, my hair moving in thick black waves behind me, my heels and toes pounding against the thick cement. Each step echoes immensly, but I can still here his oversized sneakers slamming the concrete slabs on the off beat. I try and judge if I'm getting closer or farther away, but at moments I seem to slip into vertigo and I am lost in a flurry of anxiety. My legs continue on, simply dragging my body along with them. I reach the bottom floor, just as the large door under the glowing exit sign slams shut. I stop and stand still for a moment to take in the lingering aroma he has left behind him. A collage of images runs brightly behind my eyelids and I'm gently reminded to continue on the chase. As I heave open the heavy door with all my might, I am greeted by a barren, vacant, one way street, dimly lit by one dull yellow street light under which a frenzied group of moths gather. Around the corner I see the shadow of a step and as I shift my body to follow, I feel the warmth of the sun on my back and I'm awake once again.
I slam my dainty digits against the snooze button for the last time. Slide my hand over my face to gently wake myself up and slowly check the time. I contemplate a quick journal entry, but think better of it as to not be too late to work. A quick brush of the hair and teeth. Dressed, and out the door. With each turn and swerve I take throughout my commute, I continue pressing myself for more. I need to remember every bit of sound and sight that I can capture from this night. I need to scurry to my desk, nervous and worried for the day, and with all the subtle stealth I can muster jot down my adventures through a library stairwell. It was a staircase I remember fondly, perhaps from college, one that holds faint memories of charming moments. My skin crawls with ghosts that linger there in that staircase. I push on, noting the collection of books, the color of the carpet, the warmth of the red exit sign.
But who am I kidding, there is no escape.