Because You Can't Outrun Death

A short story, a kind of excerpt from a book that I am writing, this never appears in the story but it's sort of like a mini summary of a part of the book.

Because You Can’t Outrun Death

 

Amari had never known that the world could sing. Not until she came to the frostwood. It was much like any other wood really, but to a child born and raised in the bustling streets with the crowds and noise and stench of Harrow, the frostwood was a heaven like no other. Amari could lie in the grass for hours, listening and watching. Watching the tall trees sway in that soft summer breeze, listening to their branches creak and seeing their emerald leaves flutter gently down to settle by her side. Amari had never known that there were so many different trees, Harrow had no trees, well, except for those tall ferns that bordered the walk of kings, and they were all the same. She loved the trees, and she loved the flowers, she loved the little streams that tinkled and the wind that blew the petals around her silver hair in a halo of a thousand colours. Amari was happy there, so happy that it was simple to forget them all, forget her mother and her brothers and sisters, forget the beating and the starving and the pain and misery that was her life outside of the frostwood. And so Amari lay in the grass, the tall grass like strands of gold, reaching up to the clear blue sky. She wished that the grass would only keep growing; longer and thicker and taller until it surrounded her, like castle walls, and kept out all the evil of the world. Amari wanted nothing more than to be a butterfly dancing from rose to daisy, to be the little robin that perched on her arm, to fly away with her sparrow friends whenever winter came. Amari wanted freedom, she wanted childhood, she wanted to jump across rivers and clamber into the tallest trees, to come home every night exhausted and hungry; not from being worked and hit all day, but with the rosy cheeks and lingering smile of an innocent girl who had lived a day in the frostwood, a day of joy and laughter away from anything that could hurt her. Each day it was harder, harder to leave, harder to go back. The threats were fading in her memory, the faces of those who had harmed her were blurred, and each day she felt more daring, more alive. Amari didn’t want her life; she dreamt of days under the sun and nights under the stars. She came back later, left earlier, and all the fear melted away, until one day, she didn’t return. She ran with the squirrels, chased rabbits through the golden grass, she laughed a laugh that tinkled like the little streams as she danced and leapt her way through the frostwood. And Harrow was forgotten, Harrow was just a bad dream, Harrow was her past, the frostwood was her present. Amari ran. She ran deep and farther than ever before. The day faded, the shadows grew longer, their thin dark fingers creeping closer, growing deeper, stronger, always at her heels. Amari ran and ran; she fled until the fear was back, until she could hear them behind her; hear the very shadows closing in. Amari’s laughter turned to sobs, and she ran, fighting forward as the darkness attacked. But she never turned back, how could she turn back, there was nowhere for her now, she was no one, just a butterfly, just a robin, just a sparrow. But winter had come for her, the thick cold fear that creeps slowly through your body and deep into your very heart, driving you half mad with terror. Like a sparrow Amari darted back and forth, away and away, flee, flee little bird. But winter had come, and she had no wings to fly away with, no friends to help her, the sun was gone and she ran in the darkness, all alone, and very much afraid.

Because you can’t outrun death.

Author's Note

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