Marley Was Dead.

August 23, 2017

The first sentence marked in bold was taken from Location 3 of 22 of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. The rest? My imagination running wild. This is part 1.

 

Marley was dead. 

 

No breathing. No blinking. No sign of life in sight.

 

I searched for the familiar feeling of wet tears streaming down my face only to wipe dirt across my face.

 

I blinked quickly in an attempt to force myself to feel.

 

I dug my fingers into the ground so hard that I felt little rocks rooting themselves underneath the nails.

 

Yet, as I stood over Marley, a ghostly sense set in.

 

An internal panic that someone was watching me.

 

And they were.

 

I turned around to find my mother wrapped tightly in her robe, staring at me with a raised eyebrow.

 

Maybe she couldn’t see Marley well enough because it was dark out, maybe it was all going to be okay.

 

I ran towards her, hoping she’d take me in her arms and tell me everything was alright, only to be shoved to the ground with a rapid thud.

 

I slowly stood and planted my feet firmly on the soft, dampened soil, ready to face her.

 

But when our eyes met, my legs began to move, and suddenly I was sprinting faster than I could catch my breath.

 

I ran so hard that I could feel the strings of muscles in my legs tearing one by one.

 

Sweat dripped from my arms while gravity pulled it downwards.

 

My ears were throbbing so hard that I could hear and feel each sweat droplet hit the dirt.

 

Branches scratched at my legs and I knew I was bleeding but I didn’t care.

 

Because I couldn’t care.

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