Run
by
Emma Grace
On your marks…
You are five years old. Your arms cut through the wind like arrows straining for a bullseye. Your older brother races ahead of you, laughter jangled and wild. You try to catch up, your tiny feet scuffing the street’s tarmac. ‘I double dare you,’ he’d said with his bold, brilliant face. So often, you’ve looked up from drawing chalk rainbows on pavements to see him, a blur of limbs fleeing from something he shouldn’t have done. You’ve always ached to join him, to be the one to dirty your knees and turn your neighbours to despair. ‘What’s wrong?’ Your brother goaded, noticing you hesitate in the corner shop aisle. ‘Are you a scaredy cat, little girl?’ But now you’re kicking harder, tracking him tighter, as you both race far away. You clamber up a wall that transforms into a podium. The wheezing people down below are nothing but second-best.
Get Set…
You are fifteen years old. You gobble up the track and spit out speed. Your coach tells you again, go again, again, again. You enjoy his demands, live for being in motion, and dread the moments when he commands you to stay still. Your brother keeps running but forgets the police can also pounce on wheels. Your stomach sloshes when you see his hardened face in the dock. You wish you could sprint to the moment where you fix things, where talent makes everything okay. Your coach tells you to ‘visualise the finish line, run to the end’ but everything stays out of focus. Instead, you imagine the red of a police siren, the yells of an angry store clerk and the boost of your brother’s encouraging cheers. You pretend there’s a handful of corner shop sweeties clutched in your hand, and, each time, you run, fast, for the line.
Go…
You are twenty-two. The gun goes off, and a country inhales, snatching your breath in its tight, desperate fist. Gold medals, records and cereal box covers are just eleven seconds away. For months, your body’s belonged to people you don’t know with opinions you’re told to endure. Your mouth moves like a dummy as you denounce your jailbird brother and thank a god you don’t believe in. You’re told to run towards what they want for you - some glittering golden girl smile. But you get out of the blocks slow – pumping, pushing and straining without gaining enough ground. You discover failure has a silver tinge and a bloody, metal taste you’ll never rinse from your mouth. As you sit in the empty locker room, you want to be five years old again, back with your brother, whipping your way through the wind. You want to be fifteen, lacing your fingertips with his making him a promise that, one day, you’ll be together again, and you’ll outrun them all.
You are five years old. Your arms cut through the wind like arrows straining for a bullseye. Your older brother races ahead of you, laughter jangled and wild. You try to catch up, your tiny feet scuffing the street’s tarmac. ‘I double dare you,’ he’d said with his bold, brilliant face. So often, you’ve looked up from drawing chalk rainbows on pavements to see him, a blur of limbs fleeing from something he shouldn’t have done. You’ve always ached to join him, to be the one to dirty your knees and turn your neighbours to despair. ‘What’s wrong?’ Your brother goaded, noticing you hesitate in the corner shop aisle. ‘Are you a scaredy cat, little girl?’ But now you’re kicking harder, tracking him tighter, as you both race far away. You clamber up a wall that transforms into a podium. The wheezing people down below are nothing but second-best.
Get Set…
You are fifteen years old. You gobble up the track and spit out speed. Your coach tells you again, go again, again, again. You enjoy his demands, live for being in motion, and dread the moments when he commands you to stay still. Your brother keeps running but forgets the police can also pounce on wheels. Your stomach sloshes when you see his hardened face in the dock. You wish you could sprint to the moment where you fix things, where talent makes everything okay. Your coach tells you to ‘visualise the finish line, run to the end’ but everything stays out of focus. Instead, you imagine the red of a police siren, the yells of an angry store clerk and the boost of your brother’s encouraging cheers. You pretend there’s a handful of corner shop sweeties clutched in your hand, and, each time, you run, fast, for the line.
Go…
You are twenty-two. The gun goes off, and a country inhales, snatching your breath in its tight, desperate fist. Gold medals, records and cereal box covers are just eleven seconds away. For months, your body’s belonged to people you don’t know with opinions you’re told to endure. Your mouth moves like a dummy as you denounce your jailbird brother and thank a god you don’t believe in. You’re told to run towards what they want for you - some glittering golden girl smile. But you get out of the blocks slow – pumping, pushing and straining without gaining enough ground. You discover failure has a silver tinge and a bloody, metal taste you’ll never rinse from your mouth. As you sit in the empty locker room, you want to be five years old again, back with your brother, whipping your way through the wind. You want to be fifteen, lacing your fingertips with his making him a promise that, one day, you’ll be together again, and you’ll outrun them all.
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