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He was tired. Every step sent a sharp pain through his legs, pleading for him to give up. Yet, he took step after step and ignored the growing fatigue he had held onto for so long. His breaths caught in his throat like a dying man's, leaving him gasping for air. His head began to swim, and his gaze fell on the dirt road passing by under his feet. A few rocks shot out of the ground after getting hit with the force of his kicks.
Just like the rocks, a star decided to jump off its mighty place in the sky. The ones left looked down and saw how lonely it could feel down there. Soon, some others followed, letting themselves go just like the former. Perhaps, if the boy had lifted his gaze from his fixated stare, he might have realized that he wasn't as alone as he believed with all the stars watching the ones who jumped as well as the ones on the ground. However, his mind was weighed down with memories from a past life, one he could never return to.
The human body has long been a mystery to doctors and scientists, leaving them grasping for answers regarding its cause and origin. Despite their confident assertions, he could never bring himself to fully trust the doctors in their white coats, calmly holding syringes in their hands with an air of authority. How could he be sure that the injections were a cure and not a catalyst for his decline? How could he trust those who wielded so much power in their sterile, sanitized surroundings? Trust, was not something that could be built overnight; it required effort and patience. And with their clean-shaven faces devoid of facial hair and hands adorned with oversized gloves, evidently the doctors did not have the time or inclination to build trust with their patients. After all, building was the job of engineers, not healthcare professionals.
Despite the uncertainty surrounding his condition, he chose to take the safest path, even if it meant isolating himself from others. It was difficult for the young and naive boy to convince himself that he knew himself better than anyone else. To reinforce this belief, he constantly answered his own questions, regardless of whether the answers were right or wrong. He was convinced he could jump higher than one meter and move as quickly as a rabbit, but as his list of answers grew longer, the emptiness in his chest only grew deeper. Without anyone to ask him questions, the answers felt pointless. If only he had the courage to ask the inevitable questions, but he felt too weak to do so.
So, he remained silent, never daring to ask himself the tough questions. He didn't even ponder how much longer he could continue running before collapsing from exhaustion. Would it be him or the ground beneath, unable to withstand the constant pounding of his feet. Two hours had passed since he left the fortress for a "short night-jog”, If he had a destination or a goal in mind, he might have stopped running. However, he didn't have any particular place to reach, or so he thought. The barren desert offered no respite, almost as if it was goading him to run faster and relish his gasps for air.
As with all things, the young man's relentless run came to an end. His legs finally gave out, and he fell to the ground with a resounding thud, unheard in the barren expanse. But the real question was not whether he had made peace with the inevitability of the end, but rather, how much failure can a person accept without flinching. Acceptance was a lesson he had learned well, one of the earliest imparted by the world. You had to take what was given to you, whether you liked it or not. The sooner you acknowledged the reality, the faster you could decide whether to face it head-on or avoid it altogether. . But what he had yet to understand was that acceptance did not dispel fear. He was consumed by the fear of falling, of failing.
With unsteady legs, he attempted to rise, only to falter and tumble to the ground once more. He briefly considered crawling, but the futility of the idea quickly became apparent. After a short-lived fight, he succumbed to despair and collapsed onto the ground. Resting his head on the sandy so, he was heedless of the grains that found their way into his tousled hair. The friction between his cheek and the sand caused his hands to move involuntarily, seeking relief from the discomfort. Halfway through, he paused only to feel something. He waited for the itch to settle down as the coldness of the ground caressed him slowly. "Then...let me lie here," he murmured to himself, his words lost to the vast emptiness around him.
As he lay there, staring up at the endless expanse of sky above him, he couldn't help but think about how small he was in comparison. The world was vast, and he was but a mere speck, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The stars above twinkled, reminding him of how small things could seem at first, yet how grand they truly were. However, he was not focused on them, but rather the parched dryness of his throat. His lips were chapped and cracked, but he cared not. All he desired was to bask in the coolness of the sand against his skin. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, lost in his thoughts of insignificance in the grand universe.
The stillness of the desert was suddenly shattered by a voice, its source uncertain. "Beautiful night, isn't it, mon ami?" The words floated in the air like a gentle harmony, filling the void with their exquisite melody. He felt a surge of anger rise within him, like a tempest brewing on the horizon. But he knew better than to let it consume him, for he had spent all his energy on physical activity, a habit instilled in him since times long past. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to center himself in the moment. As for the uninvited guest, he simply listened to the familiar voice and opened his eyes, only to be greeted by a celestial canvas of stars, flickering like distant lanterns in the night sky.
The sudden sound of a voice jolted him back to reality. "What are you doing out here, Scout?" The words hung in the air, laced with a note of concern that felt unfamiliar to the boy. He didn't bother turning his head towards the voice, knowing there was nothing to see but the vast expanse of the empty desert. The bizarreness of the situation threatened to suffocate him, like a weight pressing down on his chest, and he struggled to maintain his composure as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm tired of running."
A deep sigh echoed through the stillness, leaving the boy wondering if it had escaped from his own lips or the man's. Surprisingly, it didn't sound annoyed; in fact, it almost felt endearing, as if the man understood his pain. Several seconds passed before the man spoke again. If Scout had held his breath, he could have heard the subtle sounds of movement as the man sat down close by. The hum of the man's voice was now audible, and he spoke in a foreign language that felt uncomfortably familiar to Scout. Overwhelmed, the boy bit his lip, torn between fleeing or surrendering to the stranger's comfort. "Tu n'a pas dû croire pour deux heures," the man repeated. At least Scout had been honest about being tired; there was no need to feign strength anymore.
Perhaps it was due to his lack of anticipation regarding the man's revelation, or perhaps it was the sight of him seated upon the dusty embrace of the earth, but Scout couldn't suppress a startled sound that escaped from deep within his mouth as the enigmatic figure materialized before him.
After a pregnant silence, a hand slowly reached out, its movements cautious to avoid alerting the boy. If someone were to claim it trembled, he would vehemently deny it as it contradicted the composed façade he maintained. Trembling was not in his nature; he refused to allow it. But despite his efforts, the hesitation in his actions revealed his inner anxiety. The hand hovered, neither moving forward nor retracting. Gathering one last surge of determination, he allowed his fingers to glide into Scout's tousled curls, treating them with delicate care. Both men remained uncomfortably rigid, their impulsive gesture exposing their shared fear It wasn't the fear of bullets whizzing through the battlefield, but the fear of venturing beyond their comfort zones. Yet, amid the trepidation, there was also a profound sense of relief. Relief that no longer were first steps to endure, for the path ahead had been carved.
"What are you running away from, mon lapin? I perceive no pursuers in sight."
Once again, Scout's deep breaths filled the air, the sole audible sound in the moment as he purposefully ignored the question. However, the man before him remained patient, a virtue ingrained in his very nature as a professional. Spy could afford to wait. 'Une.' Now, his hands trembled not with fear, but under the weight of uncertainty, the fear of misjudgment. 'Deux.' Anger surged within him, aimed at his younger self and the misguided notions he once believed clever. 'Trois.' Leaving a child was not equivalent to taking a life. No, it was not as simple as assuming a new identity and fleeing to foreign lands. 'Quatre.' He reassured himself that he was not committing an act of wrongdoing now. He couldn't, wouldn't, and wouldn't abandon the boy, his own flesh and blood. He would rise above the man who had. 'Cinq.' Scout stirred; his restlessness palpable even without direct eye contact. Spy continued his gentle ministrations through the boy's hair, counting the rhythmic inhalations and exhalations to find solace in the assurance of his presence. 'S...
And in that moment, the dam of suppressed emotions shattered, unleashing a deluge of sobs that echoed through the once ethereal silence.
Exhaustion weighed heavy in Scout's voice as he uttered, "I'm so tired, Pa." His gaze seemed to penetrate through the stoic facade of the Spy, yet even this fleeting connection was enough for the man to draw his son close, offering solace. Scout buried his tear-filled eyes against his father's trousers, seeking refuge from his own anguish.
Amidst the trembling of his frail frame, despite his valiant efforts to suppress the sobs, Spy held his son with a fervent grip. "Oh, mon fils, mon trésor, shh... It will be alright. I'm... I'm here for you, Jeremy."
The words flowed forth, soft and melodic, like a whispered prayer, their resonance blending seamlessly with the tender union of their embrace. A testament it was, to the indomitable bond between father and son, woven with threads of unwavering devotion and unspoken understanding.
Now, the desert resounded with the raw cries of a child, their innocent voice a stark contrast to the harshness of their surroundings. In this desolate expanse, where youth should have been sheltered, the weight of their presence was a piercing reminder. And amidst the anguish, the father, who had missed cherished moments, bowed his head in gratitude, offering silent reverence to the divine forces that had brought him to this unforgiving terrain. For in this crucible of despair, he found solace tranquility in the truth that he was there, standing resolute, to face the darkest of trials alongside his precious child.