If she was running away from her own thoughts, her body on the other hand yearned to be chased and it was saying so loudly, like the echoes generated by loud shrieks sent in the middle of a valley of curves, perfected by eons of female evolution and ripped by a lifetime of deistic sculpting. Bonnie could remember a time when her life was mostly filled with joy. Before her twins got old enough to be in college, before her life had taken a sharp turn for the worse about a decade ago, when, on a morning not unlike this one, she came back home due to some emergency she no longer remembered only to find her husband, in their own nuptial bed, probing alternatively and methodically each holes of one of her dearest friends with his well-endowed member that she had since grown to hate. Her jogging pace quickened, along with her now frantic breathing as she thought of what ensued. For the following decade her marriage had become a charade, a make-believe tableau of happily dysfunctional. The urine at her feet smelled much worse than her light case of body odor, and gazing at it with distaste, she wished for something, anything, to blot up the small puddle. Checking her iPhone, she discovered the battery icon continued to obstinacy claim a 100% charge. Her phone had developed early-onset Alzheimer’s, she thought.Hobbling to the dais, she sat down on the edge and removed her left boot. She’d intentionally kept it on last night to control swelling (not to mention the possibility of needing to flee on short notice), and this morning, her ankle ached worse than ever. “Fuck,” she moaned, loosening the laces.The swelling was bad enough to require loosening the laces the entire length of the tongue. Grinding her teeth in anticipation, she gingerly slipped the boot free of her foot and examined her ankle through the sock. Comparison to her un-swollen ankle, even with the sock in place, left her feeling nauseas. Or maybe that was hunger, or her growing dehydration, she.
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