I run.

I run from the shouts and the heat and the lights, I run down porch steps and into the street, I run until I feel the knifing in my lungs and the ache in my feet. I scream into the darkened sky, its presence a trap that keeps my cries from reaching the stars. My body is soaked in rain and my face in tears. 

Two legs collapse beneath me. I am on my knees in the empty street, pounding the sides of my fists into the gravel until they bleed. I don’t even feel the pain.

Grief is a blind storm. 

It is only when my abused limbs have nothing left to give that I finally stop. I draw in a quivering breath, the first real one I’ve taken since fleeing that bitter hell of a house. My screams and curses have disappeared into the clouds above; the blood of my fists is trailing away in little scarlet rivers. In place of pounding rain, a cool wind plays across my arm. 

I kneel there in the road for a few minutes more, just trying to pull my tangled thoughts into order. More tears come instead, but these feel like more a release than a rage. My breath comes more steadily now, replenishing my oxygen-starved body. Slowly, I gather my strength and start putting more distance between myself and the house. 

My steps on the rain-washed street barely make a sound. It’s a beautiful kind of solitude, I guess. There’s a chill in the air, the chill of passing death and new life, the chill of moss and ivy and earth. And something more, too. A feeling. A feeling of loneliness, of solitude, sure, but also a feeling of contentment in these streets. The sky is no longer a trap but a shawl, a comforting presence keeping her world safe until it’s ready to face the dawn.

I continue my journey through the twilight. I can hear the treefrog calling to his mate from his hiding place, searching for something so elusive with nothing but a voice. Lamps light in warm houses, beckoning me inside, but I think I prefer myself out here. 

I think this is finally peace.