Flight

This story is without a prompt, except for the helicopters that kept circling above and an over-active imagination as I tried to write a book review. And then you have: flight.

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Image by Natan Vance from Pixabay

Flight

A helicopter circles overhead. It’s almost 1 am. No neighboring lights are one, just mine. This has become our life.

There will be someone running through the shadows avoiding capture, or not. A single movement in the spotlight will call out the foot patrol and the dogs. While I love dogs, these dogs are tenacious, frightening, deadly, and if they catch your scent, you are doomed.

The thump of the propellers grows distant. After thirty minutes, I hear the click of a key in the front door.

I wander over. You lean against the door, your face drenched in sweat, your breath coming in great waves. Pallor clasps your face. You look at me and shake your head and then lean down, palms resting on your thighs.

“You’re gotta get out of here,” you say.

I move toward you. You stand, raise a palm, which surprises me. And then I see it, the dart in your shoulder, the one they aimed at you and shot.

My fingers curl into fists.

“Go, Molly. Go now before I do something to hurt you.”

I grab the bag I packed weeks ago, as we both did, thinking we would escape together. Instead, I run into the night, into the shadows as you must have done just moments before. I had a plan, which you know about. I’ll have to change that now because you will only be you for just a while longer. And then you’ll be one of them and then you’ll come after me.

end

Sascha Darlington

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Categories: fiction, Flash Fiction

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