Sweat dribbled down his disoriented head. It was scorching hot in the mid-day sun. At least, he thought it was mid-day, it was hard to tell. His eyes were still finding it hard to adjust to the vibrant and blinding light of day. How long had it been? He remembered counting the shadows as they played around the door jamb of that dank, dark room he had been in, and he tried to count the passing days, but the man never let him see any windows. The sweat stung his squinting eyes.
He had no idea where he was. He felt the grass under his boney feet and that in and of itself brought some relief to his panic. He tried to run, but the atrophy in his muscles, and the loss of weight made him stumble. Smashing his hands down hard on the ground, he let out a muffled cry. He needed to get away, but he needed help and attention too. He didn’t want that man to hear him cry, or groan, or say anything. He didn’t want to make a sound, and yet he had to.
As he lifted his head from the disjointed fall, the clouds cast over the sun and shed some relief on his still focusing eyeballs. As he scrambled for strength to get up, he could just make out a line of parked cars; he was in the city. He was near public buildings, and across the way, he saw what appeared to be a telephone booth. He had never used a pay phone, and he hoped that the one coin he carried in his ripped up pants would be enough. It had to be enough.
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Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.