Alora

Alora was running. The air in the garden hung thick and low, with the heavy smell of cigarette smoke suffocating the breeze, but she ignored it - just as she ignored the piercing pain that penetrated her lungs. Only one thought was apparent in her mind. She had to get away. Her freedom, her sanity, her life at that moment, all depended on this insane stumble across these unfamiliar brick pathways.

There weren’t many people around anymore – those who were sat quietly, drunkenly, on the cobblestones and benches. Some were asleep. Some were talking quietly or taking slow drags from their cigarettes. All she passed bore unfamiliar faces. Alora had lost her friends hours before. She had a vague memory of them leaving to go home to their families at some point during the early hours of the morning, but she wasn’t certain. Her mind was too filled with fear and dread to be able to recall the night’s events with clarity. She wished they were here now.

She wished a lot of things. For the hundredth time, she wished she had never come here. He would be mad. Furious. He’d pretend not to be, of course, but she was old enough to know his game. She knew he was in this garden. She knew she had to run, but she was haunted by an unnerving feeling that he knew exactly where she was. He was as patient as a heron and as stealthy as a cat, and the realization soon came to her that this running was all in vain. She knew he would find her. They both knew. But still, his game continued.

She didn’t know how long she had been running for. It seemed like hours. Days. Years. He knew everything. She couldn’t continue. She stopped and stood still, looking anxiously around at her surroundings. Her eyes glazed across the fountain and the wall of red roses, resting on an old park swing bench where he was waiting. Finally he spoke; the words thundered through her paining head and brought a nauseous feeling to her stomach. “Hello Alora. I think it’s time we went home.”