Untitled. (Continued in the following entry)
I'm walking through the park, on my way to class, and I pass my friend, Tom.
Avoid the silver ball, he says.
You avoid the silver ball, I laugh. It's a game we always play. Whoever has the silver ball drop in front of him/her is "dead" for the round. Whoever dies, loses naturally.
He points up. Number's up, kid. An impatient, impersonal voice rings out 72, like the lady calling numbers at the DMV.
Then he starts to walk away, he never walks away. He's never that impersonal. Why didn't he hug me or talk to me for a second? It's only a game.
And then I look up and see this shining, silver cannonball hundreds of feet above me spinning in the air, hovering in the clouds just between Tom and I.
No, I, I think that's your number, Tom-Tom.
No, it's not. And he walks away. And the ball doesn't follow him. He's right. It's me. How could he have known it was for me with such certainty?
Then the silver ball starts to plummet, a rocket dropping from the sky. and I start to run in scattered lines like an ant. Nobody else seems to notice. Somebody doesn't even step out of the way and my chest meets a hard shoulder and I bounce backwards to meet an even harder, less forgiving ground. Why wouldn't he move? Didn't he know I was running for my life?
I glare at him, confusion locking my eyes on him in awe. And then I realize nobody is there. It's as if they have been gone forever but I just forgot to look.
I scramble to my knees, cough a bit, rub the spot on my chest where it hurts and spit a little. I have no dignity after this fall. I look like I'm failing to learn yoga, doing downward facing dog in order to gain my strength to stand up but ultimately losing it as I struggle not to fall over. A sharp blade of grass cuts ones of my fingers like paper. It's rough texture slides between my fingers as I hold on to retain balance.
Finally I do stand up and turn around, and then there is the ball, sitting there, waiting. I turn back around and begin to walk the other way. Another ball is sitting there, waiting for me. It's only a foot tall in length but I can tell from a distance that it's solid. I've never felt like an inanimate object was staring at me but it certainly is now. I look to my sides, no silver ball. I turn left and there is another, this time it completely reflects me and another ball behind me, seen between my legs and planted Converse.
My legs start to shake, kind of like they did when I was a kid on the playground and people would be arguing. It's uncontrollable and I realize it's not fear but adrenaline shooting through me. I don't think. I react, instinctively, an animal refusing to give in. I try to escape my silver cage by running at a diagonal between two of the balls. They don't follow.
I rush, straight through to a building, my instinct possibly resting on the fact that they can drop out of the sky and not out of ceilings. In my isolation, the world has gone quiet except for my desperate breathing that is beginning to sound like a train as I chug my way as fast as possible across the field and to a stone building. I open a trap door at one of the sides and try to slide in when I notice there is little room anywhere inside because a coffin sits there, and somehow I know it is mine.
It's not like those you see at funerals, not normally. There is no pine, or chesnut or whatever wood they use for coffins. It solid copper with golden hinges. It has no carvings, no character. It is blank, ominous, inevitable. I shirk back from the door and let it slam shut, the noise echoing in my ears.
I look down at my phone. A text is open on my phone. I never opened it. A notification never went off. Get in the coffin, Dic.
I turn around and run across the grass, crossing over onto the sidewalk and thundering frantically away on its asphalt. My phone begins to ring. I am filled with dread, like an unhappy reminder after a bill collector calls. I keep running. A text message rings out. I
stop in my tracks. Running will not help your situation. There are some things you cannot outrun, Dic.