Running Blind
1 - Mortality

Whump… whump… whump…

[Oh sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Sinnerman… where you gonna run to?]

Whump… whump… whump… whump…

[Where you gonna run to, all on that day?]

Whump… whump… whump…

Grey, cold and hard… peripherals blurring with each impact; the edges of the liquid skyline blend and swim into haze as he stares steadily forwards, focused on the invisible something in the distance that kept pace with his advance.

Whump… whump… whump…

[Well I run to the rock. Please hide me. I run to the rock. Please hide me]

Things disappear into the landscape of his physical battle. Bystanders and buildings all join the mash of light and dark that lingers beyond his focus, their lack of definition only serving to make his internal focus more distinct.

[I run to the rock. Please hide me, Lord]

Whump… whump… whump…

[All on that day…]

Water in his mouth. His breath doesn’t come easy. He has to hold his mouth open to suck in what air that he can, and water that tastes faintly of ash when he licks his lips streams into his eyes. He blinks it away ineffectively. The clouds are too heavy and the air too thick with rain. Not even a hand wiped over the plains of his face could sluice it away.

Whump… whump… whump… whump… whump…

[The rock cried out, I can’t hide you! The rock cried out]

Whump… whump…

[I can’t hide you! The rock cried out]

His body aches. Things pull and strain, his ribs expanding with each tug of cool air into hot lungs that shudder at the contrast. Each leap further feels as though it could be his last, though his limbs have long ago settled into a rhythm that he knows could carry him through desperation. Muscles quiver under the pressure of bearing his weight, clinging to bones that despite feeling solid, give the impression that they could bend like young trees if he but let them.

Whump… whump…

The pain at first had been a small thing, some distant yowling cat in the back of a neighbour’s yard, proclaiming its small domain to invading foreigners. But as he’d pushed and pushed, and engulfed more land between the spread of his legs it had transformed and approached, closing the gap until it is now a slavering dog snapping at his heels, still just a little bit behind…

[I ain’t gonna hide you! God, all on that day]

Whump… whump… whump…

He runs for many reasons. He runs because there are things he wants to leave behind. He runs because there are things he wants desperately enough to exhaust himself reaching for. But mostly he runs because it is the only thing that he can do well. His speed is his only attribution that is half-way decent; the only one of his few talents that can be of any worth.

Whump… whump… whump…

[I said rock, what’s the matter with you, rock? Don’t you see I need you, rock?]

From the corner of his eye, through the watery blur he catches the flash of muted yellow, the macabre of the day stealing the brightness of even that bold creature. Like the slavering dog named Pain that races at his heels it lingers not far behind, its headlights cutting a dim swath through the thick grey of the afternoon, illuminating the paces to come with a sharper distinction than allowed to the rest of the world.

Whump… whump…

Its presence is a welcome intrusion – not threatening or invasive as it had been to begin with – but a solid, strong comfort. Two steps behind and just simply there. It follows him pace for pace, matching its steel speed to his organic. He has the surety of knowledge that if he slows or if he stops the blur of yellow in the corner of his eyes will not pass him by. That it will not disappear into the murk to become merely just another ghost in the rain.

[Don’t let down. All on that day.]

Whump… whump… whump… whump…

The world swings to the left, an uncomfortable pinching sensation on his left side and a glorious stretch on his right as he pitches himself to the side in a sharp turn. For a few paces the yellow machine disappears from view, but with a roar like thunder it advances, and flickers in and out of his peripheral like a meandering butterfly in a hefty breeze.

Whump… whump… whump… whump…

[So I run to the river. It was bleedin’. I run to the sea. It was bleedin’. I run to the sea. It was bleedin’]

Whump… whump… whump…

[All on that day]

Liquid sloshes up his legs as he navigates the mazes and canals of the dreary city centre. The water is cold, and feels gritty, but he is warm and almost breathless, so the attention he pays to the temperature and texture of what manages to hit him before he passes by is fleeting and vague at best. He keeps his eyes trained on that invisible destination, that spot of blank air half a block away that shifts as he does and never grows any nearer. That place is unreachable, but that is where he needs to go, and so he keeps pushing, all the while aware that the longer he strives for it, the less likely he is to achieve it. The futility of his efforts makes him angry, and it gives him the strength to push himself more.

The almost silent blur of yellow just a moment behind him keeps pace.

Whump… whump… whump…

[So I run to the river. It was boilin’. I run to the sea. It was boilin’. I run to the sea]

Whump… whump…

[It was boilin’. All on that day]

Sometimes he feels worthless. He understands that this is normal, that almost everyone questions their worth at some point, but he wonders how many of them actually do something about it. He tries. He’s found something that he knows he can do, and he’s working to better it more. He’s managed to outrun the devil himself, but the devil was large, lumbering, and had been asleep a long time. He fears how he would stand against a creature more aware, a creature less gargantuan and more built for speed. This fear is the root of what pushes him now. Long gone is the time when he used to stretch himself for fame, for the heroine or for the sense of just belonging to something more than himself. That time and those attitudes were wiped away with his adolescence by the clawed hand of the devil. Now he wears himself down for survival, for protection, for being a part of something that equals far more than the sum of its parts.

The war is coming, the Prime had told him. He has to be ready.

Whump… whump… whump… whump… whump…

[So I run to the Lord. Please help me, Lord! Don’t you see me prayin’?]

Whump… whump… whump…

He mouths the words as he runs. There’s no air that he can spare to give birth to them, so they sit there on his lips, half formed and only the shadows of the words that tremble from the speakers in his ears.

[Don’t you see me down here prayin’?]

He was slowing down now, despite his determination. He knows that he cannot run forever, and though he would have liked to have kept going for much longer – he still feels the weight of heavy thoughts in his mind – he feels as though he has accomplished something significant. He is faster now, and can keep going for much longer and at a much greater speed than he could three months ago. He is pleased. Tired, and breathless, but pleased.

Whump… whump… whump, whump, whump, whump…

[So I ran to the Lord. I said ‘Lord, hide me. Please hide me. Please help me.’]

He staggers as he stops, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. His hand slaps wetly against a sign post beside him, but it offers him little support for when that pain that had growled at his heels finally catches up to him. He is grateful for the presence of Bumblebee at his side as his body forces him to sit in shallow puddles to do his stretches, to grit his teeth through the pain and work at his muscles until they quiver like jelly and almost feel numb.

And he is most grateful for when the cold of the air finally registers to his rapidly cooling body, and he starts to shiver with the chill, Bumblebee throws open his door and Sam is able to clamber into blissfully sweet warmth.

[Said God: ‘Where were you when you are old and praying? Lord, Lor--]

“Well done, Sam,” Bumblebee says to him once he tugs the buds from out of his ears. Nina Simone is still singing and playing her piano, but the notes are muted and tinny now, and Bumblebee’s timbres are resonating and ancient. “Three hours and twenty-two minutes.”

Sam manages a weary smile. Now that he’s stopped running, all that he had left behind is beginning to catch up with him. He pats at the steering wheel with a hand that feels three sizes too large and makes an internal note to speak to Ratchet privately later. “I can improve still,” he whispers, his breath still teasing him with only rationing a small amount with which to speak.

“We all can,” Bumblebee responds, and Sam is filled with warmth that his companion understands. “We will not fail to try.”

As Bumblebee shudders minutely around him, pulling away from the curb and smoothly heading towards the suburbs, Sam leans back into the seat cushions and closes his eyes.

There’s one more reason that Sam is pushing himself, one that he ran from today so that he could have time to think about it free from its oppressive weight. He’s come to a tentative decision now, and tomorrow he knows that he must act on it, else all his nerve might be lost. In this world full of drudgery, hypocrisy, confusion and petty pleasures, Sam knows only one thing. Mortality is fleeting.

He’s going to see if he can do something about that.

And as the rain falls from pregnant, concrete-coloured skies, and Bumblebee’s radio is silent for once as though he too is contemplating the future, Sam feels himself drifting off to sleep. And in his dreams, darker now than when he was younger, he sees that invisible, distant place he knows he must get to, and imagines it growing closer.





Part 2 - Crazy