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Can this day get any worse?
My shoulder throbs, reminding me of my bullet wound. Memories flash, reminding me of the rape, the abuse, the child I gave up.
Yes, this day can get a lot worse.
I sit up as I hear more gunfire.
Langston said to run.
No one can move very quickly through this thick brush, but I should start moving faster in case anyone starts following me—mainly Langston.
So I force myself to get up.
I force my legs to run.
And run, and run, and run.
I stop thinking about Langston.
I stop wondering and analyzing his words—trying to determine if he lied or not.
I stop worrying that a stray bullet or misplaced bomb is going to blow me into a million tiny pieces.
I focus on putting one step in front of the other.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until the sun has set.
Until it’s pitch-black outside.
And even then I keep going.
I refuse to be killed.
I refuse to be anyone’s captive.
I refuse to let any man control me.
I take another step.
This step makes all the difference.
I may not be able to see very well, but I don’t hear the crunch of leaves. I don’t have to dodge low hanging limbs. I don’t feel the brush of branches scratching my mud and sweat covered skin.
My feet sink into sand.
Did I take a wrong step toward the beach instead of walking in a straight line to the airport?
Or did I make it?
I take another and another.