Wildwood Catharsis

The world always kept pace with him as he went through his daily routine, but when Jason ran, the rest of the world fell away. Jogging down the grassy walk past the school parking lot, he tried to clear his thoughts. The tension in the nape of his neck began to evaporate as his arms swung, each in succession, maintaining his momentum. There was a peace, a Zen, to running, and Jason welcomed it.

But he couldn't outrun the world right away. The events of the day sprinted after him, latching firmly on to his back like a parasite. Only half an hour ago, he had still been in math class, sitting in the first desk to the right in the back row. He'd given up on the trigonometry quiz ten minutes earlier, and instead placidly observed the class - how the teacher seemed to stop moving when he wasn't actively explaining something; how the older girl to his left had tired-looking skin that had been too often tanned, and resembled overcooked lettuce: blanched in a kettle, a bit wilted, and no longer crisp. Jason squinted a little as he sat and watched the people around him. He rarely wore his glasses, and had never felt comfortable in contacts. Each of his fingers trailed idly back and forth over the raised white scar on his right palm. The bell rang.

Seated in a hard-backed chair at school, Jason seemed gangly, as though he were not quite assembled properly. He was tall, even sitting down, and on the thin side, not scrawny but lean enough that when shirtless, his ribs were visible beneath a sprinkling of chest hair. Green eyes rested coolly beneath heavy eyebrows, and his dark brown hair was sufficiently short that he had to do very little to make himself presentable in the morning. But all his awkwardness vanished when he ran; at those times his body seemed designed for that intention alone, sinew and bone operating in tandem to propel him forward. His footfalls echoed louder than life, a hypnotic rhythm elicited from the pavement and the expensive running shoes that he had worked all summer to afford. Jason glanced around. He was already leaving town, and the houses were farther apart, the clusters of trees grander and more imposing, the road gravel instead of asphalt. He'd run this way before; he'd run through every place near town at least a few times. With track practice six days a week, he had to keep pushing himself.

Jason began to pick up the pace, irritated that his heartbeat was already palpable, thumping in counterpoint to his footfalls. Unacceptable. Bitterly he scowled to himself, eyes lifeless for a short instant. He wasn't up to par, hadn't been in weeks, and his substandard efforts weren't going to win him any track meets. No track wins, and he could kiss his shot at next year's scholarships goodbye. Daily life, still grasping at his shoulders with tiny hooks, continued trying to tow him to the ground.

His mind delved deeper into bitterness, spiraling downward like a junkie, his inner demons eager to carry him from bad to worse. His parents couldn't buy the shoes for him; he had to wash dishes at the diner to get them. His parents. They never seemed to really speak to him, just sending words in his direction before moving on with their lives. His parents, living in separate rundown houses on different ends of town, compensating for small living spaces with large appetites.