Faster, until my injured leg screams in agony. I don’t want to see anyone. I want the rain to cleanse me. I tear my clothes off and leave them where they fall. I don’t know if I’ll ever return, and I don’t care, either. Anything that’s not now, is irrelevant. One foot in front of the other. Twigs, leaves, mud. My toes dig into the soil. My hands pick up clay and rub it on my arms, my breasts, my stomach, while I keep limping awkwardly. My slowness drives me mad. My being here drives me mad. I need to get away, but I can’t. I kneel, bury my face in the dirt and roll onto my back. I don’t want to see my scars. I’d rather be dirty than what I really am: ugly, cut-up, crisscrossed, dotted. I am the manifestation of violence. I am The Fog. Clay turns my skin and hair grey, patched with the red and brown hues of dead foliage. I want to be an old tree, giving birth to leaves and blossoms, providing a home for beetles and moss. Runner calls for me, his anxious voice coming nearer with every breath.
