Losing Inertia

by VK Gregory

  How I missed the noise and the chaos of daily life; standing here, in a clearing of a wood, alone, the weight of the world pressing heavily on tired and lonely shoulders, I thought of my friends, my family, my home that had once felt safe.

  I let out a sob.

  Quickly I covered my mouth with my hand to suppress the noise, but it threatened to squeeze between my fingers as I tried to hold it back. All my life I had people. I needed people. A dry, jaunty leaf crackled in an imaginary wind and I ran. I ran towards the first path I saw, running without looking back.

  Dodging trees, obstacles, and ducking beneath branches, I ran. I needed to be out of the woods, but they never ended. The more I ran, the thicker the foliage became, the harder it became to run. Branches and plants scratched at me, ripping my clothes, drawing thin lines of blood on my skin as I pulled away from them, crying as I tried to bully my way past. Eventually I could only walk, pushing my way through thickly packed trees and bushes, trying to find my way to the light.

  Sometimes a branch or twisted vine would trap me and I would fall, only to get back up again and keep moving. I would not spend the night here. Panic-filled desperation kept me going.

  As I pushed my way through a brambly hedge I appeared in a field. The undulating wheat field inspired me with such joy that I could barely speak for relief. The fading light warmed me. Turning around, the thick wood behind seemed an impenetrable wall of green. Finally, I was finally free.

  In the distance, a small group of houses stood around a central courtyard, where a small group of people huddled together. As I got closer, following a narrow but tarred road, I saw they were children. Five small bodies, all crowded round something, head down. Curious, I approached them, trying to see what they were looking at, what held all their attention with such interest. Over the shoulder of one red-haired boy I glanced into the middle of the circle and gasped. Lying on the ground in a row were four kittens. Four, water-logged dead kittens, their fur now dry, but still plastered to their lifeless bodies, little mouth, open slightly and eyes that had never opened, forever sealed. One young boy crouched low next to them, his tiny hands gently holding a kitten, frozen in his moment of childhood grief, as one finger stroked the fur with tenderness. The other children looked curious and innocent. But that boy with his sadness and love for the unknown kitten, filled me with a tender sense of adult empathy for his suffering.

  I shook my head and turned to go, stepping away from the little group. And then they turned. Each head turned to me, slowly twisting to find me with their dead eyes. I cried out, backing away as I remembered the farmer.

  But the boy crouching down with his limp, dead kitten, suddenly stumbled. His legs giving beneath him as he looked up as his friends. It took me a moment to realise that he was alive, really alive.

  “Come here” my voice was low, urgent and afraid as I tried to control my fearful breath. But of course, he could not come. His body was too weak; he had been a livingstatue for too long. His friends had not taken their eyes off me as I tried to decide what to do next. And then they saw me looking, following my gaze to them. They saw he was not like them. And they turned, their eyes finding his little body as he stared up in confusion and fear. The creaking of necks as they found their target. I wanted to run to him, to reach out and save him from them, but I couldn’t move. My feet were rooted to the spot, like a tree I could only stand and watch him cry. He tried to stand, but the nearest child to him suddenly snapped out an arm, grabbing his shirt. I thought that they must have awaken from their statue state, but he only stood there, one arm outstretched, gripping his shirt, staring at him. Completely still. I should save him. I should push the other children away from him.

  I turned and ran. Ran to escape the horrors I could not avoid.

  I ran until I stumbled on a hillock of grass, until I fell, rolling down the hill, the mud mixing with my tears and snot. I lay, hurt but not badly injured at the bottom of the hill. Staring up at the red sky and the setting sun in the distance. I was a coward.

  I had always been a coward.

  As the realisation hurtled through my mind, I pushed myself up to sitting position, trying to stand, but my ankle was twisted and it hurt. It was getting dark, and I lay lost, alone, and hurt in a field. Now I wanted Daniel. I wanted him to sweep in on his metaphorical white horse. Actually, a real white horse would be good. Sweep in and wrap his strong arms around me, rescue me. But there was only me, and my conscience. I could not leave the boy.

  With every droplet of strength I could find, I pushed my body up, resting heavily on one foot, careful to not put too much pressure on my injured ankle.

  I would find a stick.

  I would go back.

  I would save him.

  I had to hobble around the hillock, I could not climb it, my body ached and cried out as I limped over the uneven ground, each step agony to me. Eventually I found a large enough stick to aid me as I walked back to the small group of houses. I could see the chimney’s in the distance, but as I got closer I realised something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  Rounding the final corner, as fast as I could, I stopped and stared at the empty courtyard. There were no children. I hurried towards where they were, but there was nothing. Not even ash piles. And the boy, the living boy, he was gone too.

  “No” I cried, this wasn’t possible. They had been here. I had seen them. I had seen the dead kittens and the group of children. “No,” I hit my stick against the ground angrily. It wasn’t possible.

  It was dark now, and I was angry, tired and desperate for rest. I turned to the group of houses that offered rest and respite and noticed that one of the doors was open, as if waiting for me.

  A trap.

  I was afraid, but the tiredness and pain was greater. As I approached the door, I wondered what I would see inside. The boy maybe, the moving one. Or worse. The door creaked softly as I pushed it open, my hand shaking on the white wood.

  “Hello,” I called inside, hoping there would be no answer. The house did not answer back, instead I stepped into the hallway, listening for sounds. On the wall ahead a group of pictures caught my eyes - a smiling, happy, normal family. Then I recognized two of the boys from the group straight away, one the statue who had come back to life, the other one of the livingstatues. I walked up to it, looking into their eyes, the smiling faces of the parents. Were they here? I couldn’t bear to see them. Their twisting necks, face them knowing I had walked away from their son.

  Thankfully the house seemed empty, and without much thought I made my way to the main bedroom, eager to close my eyes and rest at last.

  On the bed lay a bunch of wildflowers, tied with a ribbon. I held my breath, not moving from the doorway.

  The flowers were fresh, they had not been their weeks. I was not alone. Someone was expecting me. And I knew. Of course I knew.

  A hum filled my ears as I fought the fear, wanting to throw the flowers away as I rolled into bed and slept. But someone was here.

  Once again my eyes threatened to close, I fought with the exhaustion and made a decision. Quickly I picked up the flowers and placed them out of sight on the windowsill, then lay down on the duck-egg blue duvet, instantly closing my heavy eyes and folding into velvet soft sleep. If someone wanted to hurt me, let them do it while I slept. I didn’t care any more.

  If I hoped for a reprieve from the lead-like exhaustion, I was disappointed. Waking up was hard, I could have slept for many more hours, but the deep rumble of hunger forced my eyes open. Always I was fighting hunger and tiredness without end.

  I took heavy, tired steps down to the kitchen, hoping for cans of food I could quickly eat. But not beans. I was tired of baked beans.

  On the light pine table, was a fresh rose in a blue tinted vase. It sat threatening yet beautiful, a promise and a threat. In front was an envelope. A single white envelope with my name written on it. I already knew, but still I ripped it open, tearing the top as I clawed inside. Just a note,


  ‘Always with you, D x’ I shuddered. But it wasn’t that which made me scream in sudden rage. Also in the envelope was a picture, a polaroid photo. I recognized the group of children instantly. They all stared at the camera, their necks craned towards the photographer, but the boy on the ground was missing. He was telling me. He would always watch me. Always follow me. Kill for me. Would I never escape Daniel’s murderous legacy?

  It was still early in the morning; the orange sun still low in the sky, barely visible above the unchanging horizon. I didn’t run. I didn’t slip and slide over the uneven terrain. I simply walked without purpose, my feet taking me far away from my town. I could not run away from Daniel. I couldn’t stay and accept him.

  When the tiredness became too much and I faltered, I sat down for a while on a bench, or beside a road, on the pavement. Wherever I could. I watched the world of living statues as I walked, sometimes I would see no one for a while, it was as if the world itself was empty and I was the last living person, and others the streets would be packed full of people frozen in a moment of living. There were many crashes, many scenes of devastation and death. As I walked, my presence felt unwanted. This empty, broken, forever still world was never supposed to be seen. It was clear to me now. We should not be here. This world would try to crush us, destroy us, remove us from its silent plains.

  I had no idea where I was going. No place to go, I just wanted to get away from the busy streets, from people. I did my best to avoid the livingstatues, afraid of their stare, their neck craning as they searched to keep me in their sight. But we had infested every inch of this earth. I would never get away. Suddenly one livingstatue twisted his neck to face me, his eyes stony but blank. I stepped back, recoiling in horror, too close to a livingstatue behind me. I felt my coat brush against her. A hand reached out, grabbing my purple waterproof mac, but not me. She mustn’t touch me. I tried to pull away, frantic to escape, thinking she had come to life. But the hand grasping my coat was like stone. I pulled harder, hearing my coat rip, quickly I unzipped it and as I pulled away it slipped off my arms. Free at last, I stared, the woman held my coat in her outstretched hand, her white fist unmoving.

  “Move,” I said to her, but her bloodshot eyes only stared at me, hard. Around her the other livingstatues twisted their obtuse necks to see me. The rippling and puckering of their skin on their necks as tendons snapped. I started to back away, then quickly checked behind me, seeing a man, his arm outstretched, ready to snatch at me. I let out a high pitch exclamation, suddenly terrified at what their touch might do. Running, I dodged between livingstatues, run too close, an outstretched arm would try to snatch me, heads twisting and turning, following me. I ran until I found myself alone in country lanes. Only then could I sigh with relief and slow down, the fresh country air filling my head, as I tried to catch my breath.

  For every moment that I thought I couldn’t carry on any more, that my energy was expended, I found a thousand more moment of strength. I had hidden reserves of energy and strength that I never even imagined, and even as I stood in the quite lane, breathing too fast, my body screaming with pain and lactic acid burn; even as I thought I couldn’t move again, that I would fall on the ground right here and it would be over, I knew I would continue. I knew I had to continue, giving up was not an option. Even if you were walking through fire. The only way was forward. That’s what I had never understood when seeing starving families fighting through war torn cities, carrying their dying children. How they coped. How they carried on when their children died and their lives crumbled around them, how they didn’t just lie down and give up and let the end happen. It wasn’t just bravery, it wasn’t just strength, or grit, or determination. It was necessity. You had to fight. Until there was no fight left. It was giving up that took the bravery, and I wasn’t brave enough.

  Ahead, a tiny village church was nestled in the back street of a picturesque hamlet in the Welsh countryside. It could have been any church, in any village, any part of Great Britain. But it was here, and now, and the door stood open as if waiting for me. The cemetery surrounding it was enveloped in green, lush grass and beautiful flowers planted aside the monuments of death. The archway leading me into the church was wrapped in vines and lead me down a stony path lined with blowsy daisies and sunflowers. I stopped to admire a group of tall, purple, blue flowers that gave a heady scent of aniseed and then I glanced through the church door.

  Somehow it was too perfect, too picture perfect. Even though I knew what I would find inside the church, I was drawn through the darkened door way into the cool tranquillity within. Empty except for one single priest who stood staring upwards at the altar and a woman, bowed in forever prayer in an empty pew.

  The church was unremarkable but beautiful in its normality. Stained glass windows picturing figures bowed in prayer and enrobed men on hills with sheep, cast coloured light on the cold flagstones - like tiny rainbows dancing across the invisible congregation. The guilded altar stood unapologetically decorative in the otherwise modest church..

  For moments, I stood absorbed in my reverie, feeling absolute peace in the emptiness. I found a moment of escape from the horror of the past days. Here I could stand and forget. My heart skipped as I approached the standing priest, reminding me of the living statue priest I had accidentally killed. This one too, was of course a living statue, that was no shock, but it was his face that I noticed. Frozen in a perfect moment of pure joy and contemplation, as he stared upwards at his entire world, it was that look upon his frozen face that lifted my spirits and brought an unexpected tear to my eye. Here he would stand, forever, in the land he had chosen in his life.

  As I stood staring at him, keeping far back enough in case the priest should turn to me, taking in the peace he still seemed to exude even now, I felt movement. That sense that someone was watching. Turning around quickly, I saw something in the dusty shadows, near a bookcase filled with blue hymn books.

  ‘Who’s there?’ It had to be Danny, there was no one else, but nothing seemed to move. I held my breath and let it out very slowly and silently, willing the movement to happen again.

  And then I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. I was not alone. I moved my vision to the aisle behind me, and there he was. A cat. Just sitting there, on the worn, red carpet staring at me with his yellow, still eyes. He didn’t move, not a whisker. Had he been there when I arrived? I was sure I would have seen him; I would have had to step around him to get here. Neither of us moved, locked in uncertain embrace. Just as I convinced myself that he was a statue after all, the creature suddenly turned tail and gracefully ran out the church. He was alive,

  ‘Hey wait, kitty’ I quickly followed the black creature out the door of the church, noticing as I did a woman crouched in deep prayer in a back pew. I glanced at her, before making my way back into the sunshine.

  I couldn’t see the cat in the church cemetery, the overgrown greenery its camouflage. Then, l I caught a glimpse of movement towards the far gate. The cat was fast. And I was tired, hungry and slow. I stumbled my way over stones and tombs, trying to avoid standing on anyone. The sun shone brightly on my head, warm and soporific as the stillness of the air gave a surreal, almost dreamlike quality to the afternoon.

  ‘Kitty, come back kitty’ This living creature, a link to the real world. A tiny black cat, sleek and smooth like spilled paint.

  I saw him hop under the gate and I swiftly followed, managing to unhook the rusty peeling latch, as I saw him run across the country lane and into a house beyond, ‘kitty’ I called as I ran after him. Crossing the lane, I could see the door was ajar. The house was a low, welsh cottage, whose twee, roses-enveloped frontage, was matched in chocolate-box splendour by an orderly front garden spilling and bursting with coordinating coloured flowers.

  Was this the cat’s home?

  I poked a head through the door, noticing a strong, heady aroma, that was both familiar and odd. But I could not immediately place it. ‘Kitty, come here kitty.’ I stepped into
a cool, stone-flagged hallway, heart pounding away, the smell stronger inside, and I was nervous to go in further. It was just a cat, it told me nothing about why I was here, or how we had both survived being stopped, but my excitement at seeing another living creature would not abate. Prudently, I stepped inside. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

  Ahead were stairs, and a door to the left, and one to the right. The left was nearer, so I reached a wavering hand for the brass handle and pushed.

  I realised as the door opened, that I did know the smell. Everyone knew the smell. It was gas. Gas from a stove or oven. A stove or oven that had been running since the world stopped. I caught a glimpse of a plump woman standing near the oven, hand outstretched on the knob, ready to light the stove.

  ‘Shit’ I cried, taking a deep, sickening breath of the nauseating gas. It was strong and filled the air with shimmery waves and lines. I immediately turned to go, I knew I had to get as far from this house as possible, but the door slammed behind me. Perhaps the wind caught it, or the cat knocked it, maybe it was the Victorian metal lock that struck the metal surround on the door that caused the spark. But as I turned to go, the rush of heat swathed me, as the loudest sound I had ever heard filled my ears, my head, my stomach and I was thrown to ground, cast aside like a toy from a child’s pram.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I could not see. The air was filled with smoke and heat. I was back in the flats again, running with Dean, trying to escape. The memory of the last day muddled in my mind as I tried to remember where I was. I had escaped. Was I still there? My back pressed against something hard; I was crumpled in a heap and hurt, although not as badly as I could have been. I could still move my legs and arms. The memory came slowly, the church, the house, the explosion. I could still think. But I could not seem to get up. In the confusion, I seemed unable to coordinate mind and body to stand and run. I knew the house was burning and I knew I was going to die but I could not move.