The first problem was I was nearly out of time. I was Harrison Ford, sans the tweed, and I ran towards my only option. Home. The obstacles were countless, so when I found an opening that increased my odds to merely possible, I took it. That’s how I ended up there. Could no-man possess land? If so, I was there. I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, yet when I saw myself run from one end of the reflection to the other, it looked just like me.
Could they see the adrenaline? People stared at me from every angle. I was a foreigner, indecent to the law. Exigent circumstances got me there, I’d say. And they’d need to get me out. I was trapped. I was surrounded.
The second problem was the only way out was to prove you belonged there in the first place. I didn’t belong. I was a fugitive, and I was on the run. I ran with faith as my only guidance, yet at every turn I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. As often is the case, desperation landed me there. The only way to get to where I belonged was through where I wasn’t supposed to be. I saw an opening and pounced. I broke the law.
Another problem, I had no plan. Only sweat and fatigue. I kept going. I worked my way though out the inside, tunnel after tunnel. I’d have to improvise to get out. I’d tell a story. I bury them with credentials. I’d plead. There was always the embassy if I was in too deep. They’d understand, but only if I failed to get out.
Short bursts of breath forced efficient thoughts.
– Not an option.
– No time.
– I got in.
– Get out.
There. My peers. We’d do time together. Out. They made it.
They snuck behind someone else as they put their validated ticket into the turnstile. I did the same. I had no option. There wasn’t enough to time to consider double jeopardy. I jumped the gate on the way in and snuck through on the way out. I had to get home by any means. Punishment? Must be sitting next to this dude on the Eurostar who keeps encroaching my armrest. Hey, isn’t there a law against that?
Categories: Creative Writing