Fugue

He’s breathing heavily but can’t stop. Other than his brows, his clothes are soaked with sweat that he can squeeze them for a bathe. His leg muscles cramping; his abdominal shaking; his world spinning. The temptation of stealing seconds of rest keeps nagging his mind and he’s sensing the incremental propensity of giving up. But no, he has to keep running. The dark figure is just meters away. It almost succeeded grabbing him there in the dark-as-ink-woods he braved through earlier and the thought of it still envelops him with shivers. Even the woods was freaking spooky--a nonfiction haunted place having an evil soul he thinks.   It’s where not a dree-dree-dree of a cicada is heard--the silence is deafening; where denizens are but darkness and the faceless trees seemingly embedded in the infertile soil of the underworld. He felt the barks and the leaves and these were as cold as the door knobs in his studio-type flat. He was not surprised. He felt terror instead. The place is the eeriest that he’d ever gone to. But the creature after him is a breathing nightmare and he can’t shrug off the monster figure in his brains—those red eyes; those claws; and the unspeakable figure that levitates and penetrates every solid object under the dark sky. He never would want to see those eyes again. More so to feel those claws slashing his every nerve and flesh. Never.

He continues running. This time he’s so tired that he fails to make bigger steps. What would he do? Give up from fleeing? Stop and wait for those sharp claws cut his life? He will have a few minutes to ask forgiveness for his sins anyway so is to say his prayers for his love ones. But as he thinks of these he keeps making paces but it worries him that he’s almost just walking. But he’s not giving up. He will not give way to his mind’s brays. He will run faster again. He won’t make a full stop otherwise he’s history. He always complains over troubles he thinks are tough solving but not this time. Not this time man! He convinces himself. 

He comes across a split road. He pauses to choose which way to take. On the left is a path amazingly teaming with barley and wheat.  On each side are vines of grapes with purple and green fruits that enticingly dangle. The white pebbles are crystal-like, the soil is covered with seemingly mowed grass. He sets a bare foot on the grass and feels the rush of relief over his every cell. Wonderful this place must be--gleams in the midst of darkness; boasts with fruits to quench a thirsty throat in the heart of a desert; a place seen only in fantasy films and exists only in the imaginative brains of fantasy novelists. He shakes his head and realizes that he has stopped quite a while enjoying the bewitching sight. He's puzzled that the creature isn’t anywhere to be seen. He understands what’s going on. He turns to his right and takes the opposite path. He hears a loud distinct roar and sees the creature taking its form again.  As he flees he sees the path turning into a pile of cinders. He hears wiles and moans of pain and of agony. Then tears start dropping from his weary eyes. Thank You, he mumbles.

The road on the right is much opposite of the left. The soil is unfriendly--covered with thorny vines, sharp pebbles, and sharp bladed grasses that cut his untidy skin and the soles of his feet. But he's oblivious of the pain. He only knows something unknown tells him to keep going; to keep venturing this path until he reaches the dead end. He can’t explain but something makes him believe he’s better off taking this path. He sees a firefly-like light in the distance. He rubs his eyes to check if he's awake and he's glad that he is. An urge of hope suddenly pinches his heart; a thin crack of smile breaks between his dry lips. He inhales deeply and looks back as he exhales. He sees the creature still following but seems to be fading. He stumbles into a puddle but gets up like nothing happened. As he continues running, he feels his skin shrinking. Must be the mud he thinks. A wider smile he wears as he sees the tiny light getting bigger.

--bigger than his fist…

...than his head…

...than himself…

...than his hometown home.

Until he sees nothing but light.

Then he collapses.