Feral

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Charity chanted as she ran, an endless mantra that governed the beat of her sneakers against the blacktop, concrete, and bare earth. The words kept her running through the night, although she was too tired to run, kept her focused ahead when every shadow, tree limb, or mirage that she viewed sidelong transformed itself into him. When she was too scared to do anything but curl up in a ball somewhere and wait for him to find her, wait for her punishment, the mantra kept her moving.

Run, run as fast as you can,

Running away from the Bogeyman.

Through the light and through the dark,

Running home to Feral Park.

Charity was nine years old now, and this was the third time she had run. He was neither patient nor forgiving. If he caught her again, he would punish her. She knew he wouldn’t kill her no matter how mad he got, but he could be very mean.

She ran, keeping to the unlit streets and alleys as much as possible so no one would see her. This time she knew where she was going, and she thought if she made it, she would finally be safe.

She’d dreamed about it, the playground by the river. Except it wasn’t really a playground anymore. It had gone wild, the grass in the park around it, uncut for many years, supported large clusters of wild sage and thistles. The iron bars and rails that surrounded it were a blood-red color from years of rust. The swing’s chains, slides, and other metal surfaces were the same. Wooden ladders, towers, and walkways, though still sturdy in most places, were gray with age, showing signs of warping from seasons of cold, rain, and the cooking summer sun. Thick, knotted ropes used for climbing and swinging hung frayed. Some were tied into hangman’s nooses.

There was a large wooden sign at the entrance that read Blackstone Park, only Blackstone was painted over in purple with the word Feral.

Feral: free, wild, returned to a natural state.

Charity understood what feral meant the way she sometimes understood things without knowing why, upon waking from the first dream of Feral Park. The meaning touched a part of her that she thought was dead, the part that dared to hope. The part that laughed, cried, felt anything beyond the dumb, numb fear. The word, and the idea that she could be feral too, drove the numbness away. For the first time she actually dared to hate him.

Her fear of him was still there, but for the first time she realized she needed to escape him. The other times she had run away had been impulse, the way a dog will run from a cruel master. It doesn’t think of escape, because the cowed dog does not believe in freedom. It can only hide, knowing its punishment will be great when the master finds it.

Charity was finished being his pet. This time she wasn’t just hiding. This time it was for keeps.