I need to walk. I don’t know what else to do, how else to be. I take flight, head for elsewhere, to a city I visited in the past, a vast place, a forgotten place where I can hide, where I can learn to walk again. The compulsion doesn’t lessen. In fact it deepens, becomes all consuming. I can’t enter. Reluctant, I keep to the periphery, relentlessly seeking a way in.
I don’t need to rest but am elated to discover that I can feel weary. I pause, these moments are fleeting at first. For mere seconds I am able to lean back against a wall or crouch down and place my hands on the earth.
The days pass, the weeks progress. I linger more and more. I sit on a bench and, lifting my head, I look. For the first time in an age I take in my surroundings, the grass in front and the city below and the sky above.
I am sitting in the grounds of the Cathedral and I feel as if I am awakening from a deep sleep. I feel the hole in my chest. Tracing it with my finger through my t-shirt I reach around and touch the exit wound on my back. It gapes like an open, useless mouth.
My clothes are already ragged and I realise I too will become ravaged.