Crow's Flight

The biting Chicago rain was a familiar chill, a constant reminder of the three years you'd been on the run. Each step through the dark woods behind your childhood home was a frantic beat against the silence, your backpack a meager weight against the crushing fear and the phantom pains of a life you'd violently ended. Your father was dead, the final, bloody punctuation mark on a childhood of abuse and neglect. Was this freedom? You weren't sure. All you knew was the desperate need to run, to hide, to escape before anyone found out what you'd done. The memory of the pizza party, the humiliation, the rage, still burned. The knife, now tucked away, a cold, heavy secret you carried with you. You ran until your legs ached, the voices in your head a relentless chorus of 'Run, hide, don't get caught.'