I went for a run when I left my house. I couldn’t run from myself, but I could run from the the people who supposedly loved me. But it wasn’t them I wanted to run from. I wanted to run from the doubt, the hatred, the words of failure. I wanted to run from the feelings inside. I couldn’t run from that.
I passed a gym and made a block and stepped inside. It was fancy and human and it was empty at this hour. I paid for a few hours and I found myself alone punching a bag. My knuckles felt bruised. My hands hurt by the time I was done. And yet the bag was still standing perfectly unharmed by my assault. And I still felt battered and broken.
With nothing else left to try I walked around New York City looking for a rogue therian. I walked and extended my senses and I searched block by block, alley by alley. I would find the therian who was lost to me. It was daylight, but he would be scared and the therian energy would reflect that probably as much as someone would feel my agitation if they looked at me through the same lens.
The sun had come up and my phone rang. I silenced it and stuffed it back in my pocket.
It rang again. And thirty minutes later again. And again.
I walked and ignored everything but the patterns around me. I’d find him. And in finding him I hoped I’d find a little piece of me.