The Beach

Sweater: Forever 21, Trousers: Mango, Loafers: Thrifted, Earrings: the Field Museum

Sometimes I write stories. This is the beginning of a fictional story that I started a while ago that I really love. 

Whenever my mom and step-dad fought I would run to the Beach. 

It wasn't that unusual for people to be out late in the city I grew up in, or even out running, at least during the warm months, but I had to be careful. The cops loved to bust you for curfew; and even though I looked older than I was, I was pushing it to try to pass for seventeen. I was careful though, keeping off the side streets and sticking to more crowded parts of town; that way people wouldn't get on me for loitering or anything.

I wasn't a fast runner or particularly in shape, but when things got loud or just plain crazy at home I liked to run. The ache in my feet and shins made me feel more solid. Not so likely to break apart. Sometimes when I run I like to go through what happened that day or plan for the next, but not then.

I just ran, and let the city blur by me, with its mingled scents and sounds. 

That night it was warm; warmer than it usually was in October. Which was lucky since I hadn't brought a sweater or jacket or anything other than my wallet.

The streetlamps were my sideline supporters as I ran. As one would disappear behind me another would be right there in front of me, cheering me on.

It seemed like time had slowed down and I reached the Beach too quickly. I still felt a throbbing pulse inside my stomach that made me ache to move but as I neared the smooth sand I slowed down. 

For me, the Beach wasn't a place to run. The Beach was magical. Here was a place that I could be alone and think, or not think, and just be free.