Sabine

Footsteps. More than a pair. More than a pair of pairs. They multiply, out of sync and out of line. A chaotic muddle of slaps against the wet pavement. Fierce and untameable, they double in speed. The metronome of the gang goad one another into action, all edging closer to my heels. I am profoundly aware of my bare ankles, calves and thighs; the hairs stand on end, poised for flight. My shoelaces threaten to come undone, and I trip in my haste to outrun my pursuers. Just like that, I become the film cliches I so openly mock.

Daylight has long since passed over the high-rise offices. It’s a mid-week night and the streets are sleepy. The week has been filled with thunderstorms, leaving behind a thick, muggy air. Attempting to ignore the cacophony of toxic masculinity, I make a fierce right turn into the back streets I know so intimately. I can hear the furious shouts as they lose their prey. Echoed footsteps ricochet off the crumbling flats, long abandoned; its graffiti dated back fifty years, now faded and forgotten.

Deftly, I weave in and out of alleyways, stepping lightly on my tip toes. With a resounding thud, the silhouette of a boy lands squarely in my path. I am unable to see his face, but his arms are crossed and I can almost hear his mocking sneer. I pause to turn back but the boy swiftly puts two fingers in his mouth and a piercing whistle alerts the others of his catch.

I freeze. My heartbeat thumps in my chest, losing rhythm, urging me into action. The slender figure darts towards me without warning and grasping the straps of my rucksack, I throw myself headfirst into a hedge. My loose-fitting jeans snag in the bracken and for a horrifying moment I am suspended in foliage; trapped in a snare. The sounds of approaching footsteps have ceased abruptly as hands grab at my ankles, ripping off my trainers and socks too.

Rough hands, smooth ones, fingers with talons and rings scratch and tear at my skin. Panicking, I throw my body to the side, my glasses flying off, and kick back with all my might before finally falling flat on my back on the ground beneath me. Without a second glance back, I sprint until all I can hear is my heartbeat. My feet hit the floor with the same quickening thuds until I can run no more.

Dust flies into my eyes and I shut them in defense, but my lids scratch my inner eye. I halt my running as quickly as I began. I drag my breath laboriously through the ever-thickening dust; the thick muggy air bringing back the ghost of asthma from childhood. Crouching in a foetal position, I cower against the stormy, violent winds, shockingly warm against my bare legs.

The howling winds cease and I tentatively open an eye at a time. The dust slowly clears, revealing an expanse of seemingly gold sand. Squinting in the growing darkness, I shade my eyes from the dust and blink in disbelief, for I am sure I can see the silhouette of ruins; semi-circular homeric pillars edging towards me, entrapping me.

My knees tremble as I become acutely aware of a change in surroundings. The air is still humid, but the mugginess has lifted. I feel like a veil, thin, floaty and indisposed. Around me I can hear the echoes of market chatter and the pained patters of horse hooves carrying laden wagons. I drift, caught between two worlds. I can feel the sand beneath my feet but when I move to sift it with my trembling fingers, it makes no impression. It moves of its own accord, footsteps appearing haphazardly left right and centre with no physicality attached to them.

Upon first sight, I am only able to see the silhouetted structure, but together with the sounds of street brawls and the feeling of hot horse breath exhausted from carrying heavy loads, I begin to gather a picture in my mind of the land I am caught between. Or under, or above. Ghost smells of fermented fish and fetid rotting corpses assault my nostrils.

A high-pitched scream rents the night air, so close I expect to see someone in distress directly beside me. I turn to emptiness; loose hair tickles the back of my neck as someone moves past me. The imprint of bare toes appear in quick succession beneath my own. A collective roar of frustration follows behind us as I pursue the escapee.

The metallic clang of swords in hilts collide as the mystery troupe hunt the barefoot woman. I hear repeated calls of ‘Sabine’ ricochet across the ruins followed by mocking laughter and jeers. She moves quickly, her footsteps darting left and right. Her breath is light and quick as she mutters words in an unknown language. My own breath comes in rasps, jagged and sharp in the cooling evening air. My adrenaline is at an all-time low as I struggle to keep up with her. Nearly coming to the end of my tether, her footsteps halt abruptly. Despite being alone in this unknown landscape, I sense an evil energy, preventing her from running further.

Although unable to witness the chase, I feel the woman’s resignation as she succumbs to her captors. The crack of a whip sounds across the square, the powerful vibration reverberating inside my mind, shortly followed by a piercing howl. I shriek in response as the footsteps become dragged, her body being pulled towards the ruins. The chatter and claps of the men make me feel nauseous. Doubling over, I bring up the remains of my dinner. The world upon which I have stumbled seems inescapable, a time I am imprisoned to, not all too different from the horrors I broke free from.

An invisible weight prevents me from catching up to the imprints of the victim’s breaking body but I drag myself on my hands and knees to the entrance of the ruins. Thunder rumbles across the sky and the thick, oppressive air descends for a second time. The sounds of the busy market and the men on horseback merge with the frustrated sounds of the boys attempting to gain entrance through the hedge I scrambled through. Exhausted and resigned, I stay low on my knees as the sand begins to swirl in eddies around me. Instinctively, I shield my eyes and glinting below my hand is a flash of deep vibrant orange. A marigold. It glows in the expanse of dust, sand and stone. Freshly plucked, it still holds life. Picking up the fallen flower, I notice a dark long curl drifting and hanging onto the delicate petals. I gingerly cusp it to my chest as the dust settles and tightens in my lungs.

I glimpse one last look at the shadows of the ruins - committing it to memory as no one will believe the strange occurrence of my evening - before a blast of white lightning engulfs the stone structures and dusty ground.

Like whiplash, I am thrown back into my hiding place. The sounds of my pursuers have long since departed; bored of catching me and I draw in long gulps of fresh air to steady my heart. Dusting my knees off, I tentatively rise and navigate my way back through the derelict side streets. I look up to the high-rise buildings and see a myriad of crescent moons reflected in the windows. I clutch the wilting marigold to my chest and close my eyes, feeling a light brush of hair against my neck once more.