Out of the Hedge, pt 1

Charlie had been running for a long time. He could tell because his throat was raw, his legs were numb and his heart seared with pain. A single thought burned like a white hot star in his mind: Keep running. No notion of running from or toward something, there was no past or future. Right now, Charlie had to keep running. He ran through brambles that tore at his skin, eager to spill his blood and drain him of determination. He raged through the mist that made him lose his way, plotting to keep him going in circles and steal his sanity. He fought through marshes that shackled his feet, trying to root him to the ground and break his spirit.

Through it all Charlie began to feel the taste of blood and the tension in his jaw, set square against the bile. He felt the sting of cuts and bruises on his arms and legs, the ache in his joints with every jarring step. Slowly, his mind strayed and he became vaguely aware of his surroundings. It dawned on him that he had been running for a very long time without getting anywhere. Everything in these woods conspired against him. He was stuck in a maze.

He stopped and doubled over, hands on his knees, gulping down air, filling his burning lungs. He couldn't breathe fast enough, his heart was trying to crack his ribcage, and his eyes swam in a sea of stars. He sagged onto the ground to catch his breath and looked around.

"Where the fuck- Where am I?"

Untouched wilderness stretched out in all directions. Trees and thick thorny undergrowth, with neither any sign of civilisation nor any lights in the distance. He must have somehow got out of the city, way past St Abraham park. He blinked. The park. His memory was fuzzy, as if it had happened years ago. He remembered that it had been sunny and warm, and he'd decided to go for a walk during lunch. Now it was getting dark, which meant he must've been away for hours. What in the world would possess him to wander off aimlessly? Why had he been running?

Rubbing his legs, trying to get some life back into them, he looked down and stopped. These weren't his clothes. Someone had dressed him up as a soldier. He looked like something out of a war re-enactment or like a tin soldier. Charlie sat back and just stared down at himself for a while, half hoping that the explanation would jump out at him, that something would trigger a memory. Nothing came. He couldn't recognize any of the things he was wearing. His mind was totally blank. Had he been drinking? Apart from being exhausted, he felt fine; no nausea, no headache. There had to be an explanation. Feeling his pulse rising and his face flushing, he ordered his brain to start working, start thinking, start remembering, to do anything. The thought went on and on in a loop, becoming a mantra that he focused on in a last-ditch attempt to collect his thoughts. Instead, he felt his mind go into overdrive, the one thought spinning out of control, which only got him more worked up. Now he wanted to punch something.

"Shit! What the fuck am I doing here? Hello! Help!"

His voice didn't seem to carry far. There was no hint of an echo.

"Hello?"

It was like screaming into a pillow. A sour tightness formed in the pit of his stomach. Charlie suddenly felt very alone.