The Big Show: Rights without Responsibility
Rights without Responsibility
It’s getting dark, the lake to her left turning dark blue and slowly black as the sun dipped behind the city. The lake shore path is mostly empty, leaving Murphy plenty of room to run. She needs to run, needs to escape and just stop thinking for a few moments. All day long, her brain has been whirling at what feels like a million miles an hour. She hasn’t been able to focus though. Her brain won’t settle, won’t stop and she desperately needs it to stop. It’s April 24th and it won’t stop.
She picks up the pace, moving from a lope to an actual run. After a few moments, her throat starts to hurt. She’s pushing herself, which she shouldn’t do. She knows how to run, but she’s not worried about form or breathing properly. She’s out of step, physically and mentally. Everyone could tell. At work, they all had treated her like she was fragile. She’s not fragile. No one needed to walk on egg shells, but they all had. Even Butters when she’d snapped at him had just looked at her with pity. Why does everyone have to pity her today?
The burn from her throat moves into her lungs as she starts to sprint. She doesn’t need to be pitied. It’s been twenty-four years, she’s come to terms with the fact that on this day her mother left her. No one needs to act like this day is anything special. Just because her mother hasn’t called, written or made any sort of contact in twenty-four years today doesn’t mean she needs to be treated differently. If they really cared about her feelings, shouldn’t they treat her the same? Treating her differently just reminded her that her father, who had missed her graduation, had come to her wedding and the birth of her daughter while her mother had not. If people treated her the same, she’d remember that she’s accepted that her mother had been gone for twenty-four years.
For all her stamina, without the proper form, Murphy’s body starts to give out. Her muscles are burning more oxygen than she’s breathing in and they’re shaking from the strain. Her lungs are really protesting now and sweat is rolling into her eyes. She has to stop soon or she’ll collapse. At this hour with no one around, something bad could happen to her, clutch piece on her ankle or not. Her minds moving so fast, but she still catches the thought that maybe she should keep going. Maybe she should just push herself until she drops. A few hours unconscious and she won’t have to think about this anymore. She stops though. She’s hurting, not stupid. She walks to the lakeshore and doubles over, trying to get more air into her lungs. She wipes the sweat away from her eyes. That’s all it is, sweat, it’s not tears. She’s too old to be crying about this.
Twenty-four years, double the time she knew her mother, she’s grown up, she’s a responsible adult and she has no reason to cry about this. Just because some part of her, deep down has always felt alone and has been stuck in her grandmother’s front window waiting for a pair of headlights did not mean she wasn’t able to handle this. It doesn’t matter that for the last twenty-four years she’s told herself this little speech every time this day rolled around. She gave it to herself again and again. She had made herself better than that twelve year old girl. She had risen above that and become stronger, more than that helpless little girl. She kept her promises, she did her duty and she met her responsibilities. She was not her mother and she was not waiting for some miraculous reappearance by her mother. Twenty-four years. It was just sweat, not tears.
She starts to walk home, heading North, but then she stops. Her home is big and empty. She doesn’t want to be alone. She’s tired of being alone. She changes direction, heads West and the man who’s there when she needs him.
It’s getting dark, the lake to her left turning dark blue and slowly black as the sun dipped behind the city. The lake shore path is mostly empty, leaving Murphy plenty of room to run. She needs to run, needs to escape and just stop thinking for a few moments. All day long, her brain has been whirling at what feels like a million miles an hour. She hasn’t been able to focus though. Her brain won’t settle, won’t stop and she desperately needs it to stop. It’s April 24th and it won’t stop.
She picks up the pace, moving from a lope to an actual run. After a few moments, her throat starts to hurt. She’s pushing herself, which she shouldn’t do. She knows how to run, but she’s not worried about form or breathing properly. She’s out of step, physically and mentally. Everyone could tell. At work, they all had treated her like she was fragile. She’s not fragile. No one needed to walk on egg shells, but they all had. Even Butters when she’d snapped at him had just looked at her with pity. Why does everyone have to pity her today?
The burn from her throat moves into her lungs as she starts to sprint. She doesn’t need to be pitied. It’s been twenty-four years, she’s come to terms with the fact that on this day her mother left her. No one needs to act like this day is anything special. Just because her mother hasn’t called, written or made any sort of contact in twenty-four years today doesn’t mean she needs to be treated differently. If they really cared about her feelings, shouldn’t they treat her the same? Treating her differently just reminded her that her father, who had missed her graduation, had come to her wedding and the birth of her daughter while her mother had not. If people treated her the same, she’d remember that she’s accepted that her mother had been gone for twenty-four years.
For all her stamina, without the proper form, Murphy’s body starts to give out. Her muscles are burning more oxygen than she’s breathing in and they’re shaking from the strain. Her lungs are really protesting now and sweat is rolling into her eyes. She has to stop soon or she’ll collapse. At this hour with no one around, something bad could happen to her, clutch piece on her ankle or not. Her minds moving so fast, but she still catches the thought that maybe she should keep going. Maybe she should just push herself until she drops. A few hours unconscious and she won’t have to think about this anymore. She stops though. She’s hurting, not stupid. She walks to the lakeshore and doubles over, trying to get more air into her lungs. She wipes the sweat away from her eyes. That’s all it is, sweat, it’s not tears. She’s too old to be crying about this.
Twenty-four years, double the time she knew her mother, she’s grown up, she’s a responsible adult and she has no reason to cry about this. Just because some part of her, deep down has always felt alone and has been stuck in her grandmother’s front window waiting for a pair of headlights did not mean she wasn’t able to handle this. It doesn’t matter that for the last twenty-four years she’s told herself this little speech every time this day rolled around. She gave it to herself again and again. She had made herself better than that twelve year old girl. She had risen above that and become stronger, more than that helpless little girl. She kept her promises, she did her duty and she met her responsibilities. She was not her mother and she was not waiting for some miraculous reappearance by her mother. Twenty-four years. It was just sweat, not tears.
She starts to walk home, heading North, but then she stops. Her home is big and empty. She doesn’t want to be alone. She’s tired of being alone. She changes direction, heads West and the man who’s there when she needs him.