I’ve been on the run for a very long time.
Oh. I don’t know any more. I’m sure I had a reason. I’m sure I am followed. I’m sure a horrible fate awaits me if I were to return to the place that I once called home.
Home. I’m sure I had one once. Where else would I have grown up, learned the art of the foil, learned to ride, learned to wear the garb of the gentleman adventurer. I must have had a home once. Long ago.
But that can’t be as important as the immediate danger from those who follow me.
The followers. I’m on the run. There must be someone chasing. Simple logic. Do try to keep up.
I’ve got holes in my socks from the running. The holes tell the story of feet rubbing on shoes. I used to have shoes. I’m pretty sure of that. But now I have socks. Socks with history. And holes.
Long long ago, and now far far away. Another time, another place. I hardly remember it any more. But I do remember the cat. The cat that stole my favorite stuffed toy, and ripped it to shreds. Or maybe it was a dog. It was a long long time ago. I’m sure there was a toy, and then there was just stuffing everywhere, and a sad bit of fabric with a face sewn on. And big buttons for eyes that could follow you around the room, watching. I wasn’t being chased then, I was at home, but there was the stuffed toy with the eyes watching me all the time. I had to end it. And run. I don’t remember why any more.
Now I travel as much as I can with a rigid seat, a firm grip on my steed, and a straight arrow of a spine. My trusty steed, this is. I know she’s short a pair of legs, but she is a faithful companion and I’ve never held the number of legs against her. Why would I do that? She runs like the wind, and when she wishes she flies. Sometimes. She says she flies when my eyes are closed. I would trust her with my life. I do trust her with my life.
I am on the run.
Why am I talking to you?
Who are you again?
Do you know where my home is?
Do you know why I’m running away?