The Flesh

The Flesh
E. Bacon

PROLOGUE

Connecting with the cold, abrasive cement immediately orders searing, sharp pains that slice into my palms and knees intently. Radiating, simultaneously networking upward through the intricate structures of my axilaries and femers, continuing all the way to my lower vertebrae. In my dorsal genre it procreates and protracts, eventually taking up residence somewhere in the occipital region of my cranium.
It is a dull and unrelenting hindrance to the cognitive design of my escape.
Perhaps the alcohol has played some role in this. Although the actual music has long since died away the monotonous thumping of the baseline still reverberates between my eardrums in a form of alarm. I know the urgent threat of impending capture supercedes all aching but terror tightens my cheeks and grips my heart desperately, anchoring me.
"GET UP!"
I urge myself aloud, unconcerned with being overheard. I am clearly visible to the night under the dim cast of vapor lights looming overhead. I want to be seen. To be heard. If only to alert some witness to leave behind. As if shoved forward by unseen hands, I rise abruptly with a grunt of determination, half expecting to be knocked back into the feeble position. The life I have been allowed to lead for not nearly long enough, not even three decades now, will be stolen from me prematurely shortly.
Will it be painful?
Before I know it my feet are once again pounding the pavement at top speed as if they have a mind of their own, though I fear to no avail.
Fight or flight. My autonomic nervous system has taken control of the situation. How odd that my last thoughts will be of my academics? I can not allow that any more than I can allow myself to surrender to exhaustion.
I don't want to die.
Not here. Not without so much as a witness to relay the injustice bestowed upon me. I'm not ready. Attempts to pray are throtted by plots of escape. There isn't even time for prayer?
Time.
I need time. Have I even called out for help? My lungs burn and my throat is raw from the harsh breaths forcefully punching through it. And still there is not enough air. I need air. Focusing on attaining oxygen, holding fast to the belief that there has to be a solitary good samaritan awake at this hour just ahead that will assist me. Save me. I press forward on my rout, through the agonizing spear of pain at my side persevering with each connection with the cement.
I'm not ready…
Not to die. Death is final. There will be no second chance at life if I fail now to get away. To get help.
The desperation within me compounds and panic triumphs over strained lungs. I am as aware of the retraction in the gap between myself and my pursuer as I am the constant flow of useless tears streaming down my face. My nostrils burn, violently secreting against the brutal invasion of cold night air. There is no time left. I can not extend it. Until now I have avoided veering off the cement path, knowing my decreased prospects if I do but suddenly feeling merely inches from my pursuer the strategy now appeals to me. Perhaps the scattered brush will offer some level of protection, escape, or possibly even an opportunity to catch my breath.
Each network of branches resembles a serrated whip of sorts, slashing through the raw flesh of my freshly wounded palms as I struggle to minimize the severity of the damage done to my face. My head is pounding. The warm liquid that drips from my wounds feels in stark contrast to the night. Even with my arms crossed inches before my face a few lashes manage to penetrate periodically, though the damage has already been done there. Each branched figure is scarcely decipherable prior to contact. The field of view before me rocks, sways and is lulled in and out of focus by the darkness, hovering almost as if a separate threat of its own.
No time.. .
Had my ears not been desensitized perhaps I would have heard the crisp crackling of branches, or the schism of snapping twigs not made by fleeing.
Perhaps then I may have veered off course yet again in either direction.
So close to sanctuary now, I know.
As my pursuer's shadow falls upon me indiscernibly within the shelter of the brush the inevitability of the situation bares down further yet, and I collapse once again, seemingly under it. I haven't the time to process what has happened. As the warm, bitter, coppery liquid fills my mouth, haze does not permit me focus before my injuries mercifully deny me consciousness.