(Short story)

I chose running or did it choose me? Most likely, the choice was mine.
My marathon lasts for 19 years 3 months and 3 days.

I used to run from problems, run from misunderstanding and resentment. When it is very difficult, when my parents are unhappy with me or my friends are mocking me, I turn around and run. They call be back insults and taunts, eternal cries of “Where are you going?” But in the mind only pulsation of the blood and thought, “I’m not so harsh and horrible.”

Slam the door. Jump into bed. Face in the pillow. Blanket between the legs. And you cry so hard no one can hear you.

When the blood stops bubbling, he wakes up — my Warrior. It is he who makes me wipe my tears, blow my nose and get up. Get up in order to continue to move on. It helps to swim away from the lake of tears.

Here I go again. I’m 10 years old. I wear glasses and braces. With braids or a funny ponytail. I keep going forward and forward.

Time passes and the stones crumble again. Unwrap. Flee. Stabs in the back.

Now I have no points and I don’t wear braces, my mother braids my hair but the habit of running left.

I think that’s why I don’t wear heels. The little girl in me is always ready to give up. Run home, bury yourself in a pillow, hold a blanket between the legs and cry.

Yes…I run.

But the warrior who wakes up after a tantrum lifts me up and gives me the strength to move on. And I go. At first uncertainly, and then go again looking up, as long as the stone will not hit me in the face.

P.S. Maybe one day, when I turn around and run, someone’s strong hand will grab mine and calmly whisper in a quiet voice, “”Wait. I am always here for you.”

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