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.