Five steps, six, a turn, half a second, still.
So, to the point of blending in with the un- the nothing. A wait, not relax. She can't remember what that word used to mean, only that it is not hers to use. It is a term for the privileged, and she's already lingered too long.
The street is dark, dirty, and she sticks to the center line, heel toe, heel toe, as if it's a tightrope. It may be, she knows. Their tricks are predictable in their unpredictability, and she's learned to always do the unexpected, and never do anything that even in the remotest of possibilities and farthest reaches of mind, resembles a pattern. This is how she survives.
Forty steps, another turn, pause.
It's a dance, see. Elaborate and disjointed. He shouldn't have complained, she thinks. Or thought, once - she can't remember now. But he did, and he broke the plan, stepped outside of the circle of steps and now, well. Now he's paying the price.
Here the road turns again, one of those sharp downhills that puts you back where you were, but facing the wrong way, the asphalt unfinished and grooved to stress the importance of slowing down. She moves faster here, of course. It's an old stone wall that's necessitated this particular curve, with a plaque proclaiming the historic importance of the crumbling remains. They've made the road go around, instead of accepting the cycle of decay and rebirth, of recycling time. This wall had its time, and now it's just another roadblock.
She pauses, thinks, realizes this is it, perhaps, again. They could have put the wall there - and the plaque - and yes, there it is, a small shine of new gold paint where they missed.
She, jumps, and lands on the other side.
So, to the point of blending in with the un- the nothing. A wait, not relax. She can't remember what that word used to mean, only that it is not hers to use. It is a term for the privileged, and she's already lingered too long.
The street is dark, dirty, and she sticks to the center line, heel toe, heel toe, as if it's a tightrope. It may be, she knows. Their tricks are predictable in their unpredictability, and she's learned to always do the unexpected, and never do anything that even in the remotest of possibilities and farthest reaches of mind, resembles a pattern. This is how she survives.
Forty steps, another turn, pause.
It's a dance, see. Elaborate and disjointed. He shouldn't have complained, she thinks. Or thought, once - she can't remember now. But he did, and he broke the plan, stepped outside of the circle of steps and now, well. Now he's paying the price.
Here the road turns again, one of those sharp downhills that puts you back where you were, but facing the wrong way, the asphalt unfinished and grooved to stress the importance of slowing down. She moves faster here, of course. It's an old stone wall that's necessitated this particular curve, with a plaque proclaiming the historic importance of the crumbling remains. They've made the road go around, instead of accepting the cycle of decay and rebirth, of recycling time. This wall had its time, and now it's just another roadblock.
She pauses, thinks, realizes this is it, perhaps, again. They could have put the wall there - and the plaque - and yes, there it is, a small shine of new gold paint where they missed.
She, jumps, and lands on the other side.
