The next morning I wrap my toes in cloth, stuff my feet into my shoes, and run again. If you can...just a little bit farther...just a little bit faster...you'll see, you'll see, you'll see. Alex is alive.
I'm not crazy. I know he isn't, not really. As soon as my runs are done and I'm hobbling back to the church basement, it hits me like a wall: the stupidity of it all, the pointlessness. Alex is gone, and no amount of running or pushing or bleeding with bring him back.
I know it. But here's the thing: When I'm running, there's always this split second when the pain is ripping through me and I can hardly breathe and all I see is color and blur - and in that split second, right as the pain crests, and becomes too much, and there's a whiteness going through me, I see something to my left, a flicker of color (auburn hair, burning, a crown of leaves) - and I know then, too, that if I only turn my head he'll be there, laughing, watching me, holding out his arms.
I don't ever turn my head to look, of course. But one day I will. One day I will, and he'll be back, and everything will be okay.
And until then: I run.
- Then, Page 75
I'm still getting over this one. SO. PAINFUL.
Review on Monday.