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I talk way too much

Michael considered fate at 22:49   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

He ran through the jungle like a man possessed. Like a man possessed, he ran through the jungle. In the jungle the man ran, as if he were possessed. The man, who ran as if possessed, was in the jungle. The jungle was where the man was running like he was possessed. He, feeling and acting very much possessed, trotted through the jungle. In the jungle he possessedly ran, through it, like a man.



He was most certainly not a man. He was a boy. The tears were streaming down his face and that wasn't even the worst part. His left arm, twisted and broken, hung limply from his shoulder while he bumped into trees and fell on the ground. Each time he landed on his face he would have to wiggle around and free his right arm, prop himself up (always as if possessed) and sort of jump from a sitting position into a full run. Once into his full run he would once again bump into a tree trunk.

The forest was green and bright in that living way and moisture lay like a thick down blanket over everything. He flailed his one good arm at the haze as if windmilling through cobwebs in a basement (the foliage hung low enough to suggest a dimly lit basement rec room) and the haze, like a cobweb, relented with only the slightest hint of hesitation. The green, everywhere, offended his taste and he ran even faster. He just wanted to get home.

Home, for this boy, was a large ranch house deep in the Brazillian forest where he had lived for almost his whole life. It was big and wide and stood out in the middle of clearing with a circular driveway curving around in front. It was painted an off-cream colour that, while not entirely offensive, was clearly man-made. Amongst all the green it almost felt wrong.

The blood near his temple kept dripping down his face and into his mouth; off his nose and onto his shirt. He could taste the redness on his tongue but that wasn't what bothered him so much, it was the sweat that really irritated him. Every once in awhile he would, while still running, reach up and swip at his face with his sleeve in a jerky way someone swatting at a fly might. The shirt was soaked around the collar and faded to dry down by the waist, wet also on the one arm.

Breaking into the clearing he fell again, this time sliding across the gravel driveway and ending up splayed out with little around him to aid in getting up. He rolled over and sat up, looking back at the jungle behind him and then down at his arm. The bone, cracked and sharp, stuck out of the skin just below the elbow. He picked at it, cleaning off the sand and dirt and tried to wipe the blood off but it just smeared around.

After he got back on his feet he jogged over to the front steps and eased himself down onto them. He looked around at the house and placed his hand on the smooth wood of the steps. His breathing had already slowed a bit and he allowed himself to relax. For the first time in over a day the man closed his eyes. His eyes closed for the first time in over a day. The man, for the first time in over a day, closed his eyes. He closed his eyes for the first time, the man, in over a day. For the first time in over a day he closed his eyes, the man.