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Centripetal of claret red. My shock subdues the pain as blood begins to stain the floor and soak into the corroded wood. I try to lift my left foot from the nails, but feel the skin tug and rip out of place. Losing balance, I press my hand against the glass and feel a budge. My eyes ascend up towards the window and swell with knowledge. I grasp the lock with my hands and pull, feeling the barricade loosen. The rust flakes off and falls onto my feet, now covered in a jacket of sanguine appliquĂŠ. The latch clicks and I pull, a whisk of cool air seeping through. The voices begin to rush in through the walls, scraping at the membrane of my asylum. I see their hands through the stretchy film, reaching and trying to break the patchwork. I fully open the window, feeling the ocean breeze swim through my hair. The smell hits my nose like a bullet, an aroma of salt and freedom. The voices begin the scratch through the web, an oozing substance exuding as they poke their fingernails through. Bursting with strength, I rip my feet from the nails on the floor, oblivious to the sound of shredding skin. I step up on the flimsy chair with my right foot, and place my wounded left foot out the window. The gull skirts around my foot, encouraging me to continue on. I grip the sill and loop my right foot out the window, sitting on the edge of the small window as the barrier breaks and the voices begin to swoop in. With one breath in I slip out the window, feeling the icy grips from the voices kissing my back in a final farewell. I feel the air swallow me up as ebbing gulls proudly sing to me. Before I reach ground, where my shattered bones will become shells for the coast, I feel the warmth echo through my body, and know that for once, I have found freedom.


Centripetal Volume 12 Issue 1  

Volume 12 Issue 1--Fall 2010