Marley Was Dead.

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.