Going to Ground 1.0

As promised here is the opening to the second installment in the adventures of Olivia & Cerise, "Going to Ground." And also as promised, I posted it before I went to bed. Just ignore the time. Let me know what you think. Time to pass out.

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Just a little further. The muddy ground squished up through my toes as I ran. Wrapping the thin linen of my dress around my legs, the wind whistled through the alley. My lungs burned. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, chilling my skin. Everything seemed covered by thick shadows hidden from the meager moonlight. I couldn’t see them. My blood hammered in my ears. I couldn't hear them. Doesn't matter. Just keep moving. Have to keep moving.

Lamp light from the nearby homes seemed to expose me as I stumbled out of the alley into the London streets. My hands balled into tiny fists, I slowed my pace on the slimy cobblestones. Tucking my hands under my armpits, I stole a look behind me. The mud still clinging to my feet, I slid and sprawled in a heap onto a pair of shiny leather boots. Specks of mud splashed and speckled the recently unblemished footwear. Cursing, I warily raised my eyes through my tangled, dirty hair. I looked up at the dark eyes of a man in a cassock, a large pewter cross hanging from his neck. A soundless scream choked my throat. His spotless hands twined in a rosary as he peered down at me, his lips twitched once in revulsion. My eyes widened as I scurried backwards from contact with the priest. His fingers tightened around the rosary.

“What a waste,” the priest said his posture only marginally stiffer than his tone.

Sniffing, he looked beyond me. “Take her.”

My low whimpering turned to a shriek as I felt a hand yank me off the ground by my hair.

Gasping for air, my eyes flew open and I lurched forward, my hands digging into the dash.

“My, my, sleeping beauty does not seem to have woken with a kiss,” said the laughing voice in the driver’s seat.

Inhaling raggedly, I realized my claws were embedded deep into the plastic. Retracting them, I peeled back my fingers, flexing away the stiffness. Bloody hell, my heart won't stop racing. To steady my hands, I raked my hair away from my clammy forehead. Never fails. Every time, it's like I'm back there terrified, helpless.

When I offered no explanation, Cerise continued, “We’re almost to the Sheetz at Breezewood, which means only two hours until we get to Matthew’s.”

I nodded grabbing my metal lighter and twirled it in my left hand as we hurtled down the PA turnpike the open, rolling farms flying past the car. As I watched the clusters of cows, that spotted the landscape, the sounds of Linkin Park drifted into my subconscious from the speakers and I whispered along with the verse, “Wounds so deep they never show. They never go away. Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they’ve played.”