Shadow Chaser

The hollow sound of Shorty Johnson's feather-weight running shoes striking pavement echoed throughout the solitary road.  For as long as he could remember, Shorty, born Reginald Lucius Johnson, loved running cross-country.  It did not matter whether he ran in competition or for pleasure.  The solitude he felt lifted when he strode in rhythm, for only then did loneliness abandon him.

Running proved more than therapeutic for Shorty.  He kept regular appointments with the road.  Every day, as the sun began its embrace, a renewed outpouring of energy lifted his spirit.  However, today a menacing presence lingered close behind.

Many people ran away from their fears, responsibilities, or inner-demons.  Shorty ran because it filled him with passion.  It reminded him that life itself was fragile and temporary.

As he got deeper into his run, the light fog thickened, suffocating--indeed almost strangling him.  Shorty coughed and spit on the ground.  His senses heightened.  He became aware of the trailing shadow but could not actually see it though it mimicked his every stride.

It amazed Shorty how when jogging, the mind began to clear and important subconscious thoughts pushed through, allowing him to evaluate crucial events that had occurred in life.

Seeing the light fog begin to lift, Shorty thought about his high school days.  Standing at the starting line at the state's biggest track meet of the year, he glanced around, his non-imposing five-foot two inch frame hidden behind a wall of giants.  Conscious of his tiny ears, he rubbed them for good luck just before the starter pistol signaled the release for the pursuit of freedom.

The pounding of multiple sneakers on low grass and dirt road sounded like a legion of thoroughbreds racing into battle.  Indeed, the exceptional runner looked at the race as a war to be fought and won where the victors would be knighted with medals.  However, the average runner likened the experience to hell on Earth where misery reigned supreme and the disparity of not realizing the elusive dream, not grasping a medal, served as a foreshadowing of the failures to come.

On the other hand, Shorty perceived running as one would breathing.  He gained strength, courage and dominance every time he worked his way to the head of the pack.  He had to stop himself from laughing when he pulled alongside his nemesis, for he knew that in spite of his physical shortcomings, victory would be his yet again.

When he pushed across the tape finishing in record time, people rushed to usher him to the winner's circle where girls were more than polite. Adults laughed and jostled each other to take pictures with the little flash of lightening.  He loved hearing the chants of the student body, his name released from their lips echoing throughout the park like glorious thunder.

"Shorty! Shorty! Shorty!"



On the road, Shorty felt invincible.  Now he found himself running against time with his twenty-first birthday embracing him.  Chunks of his past pushed through as though glimpsing scenes of his life at the hour of judgment.

Shorty grimaced.  Not because the black knee brace he wore on his left leg became heavy with perspiration, but because yesterday he visited his insane crack-head mother at the asylum, her skeletal, fragile, tiny figure fresh in his mind.

Sometimes when runners go out to pursue freedom, they run into a wall of living nightmares known as the past.  Yesterday, Shorty's horrid past caught up with him.

At the behest of his foster parent, he went to visit his dying biological mother.  He thought it would be difficult to see her suffer as she reached deep within her tortured soul to utter words, that at first, he could not comprehend.

A byproduct of living his younger years in the tough Brooklyn Projects, Shorty learned at an early age to mask his emotions.  He stared at his mother as she groped for the right words, his mind filling with images of her going into the bedroom with different men clouding his vision.  He placed one hand behind his back, squeezing it into a fist when picturing the times he struggled to find something to eat.  Meanwhile his provider slept off the effects of her drug binges.


 
Pushed back to the present, Shorty stopped running when his tiny ears picked up an anomaly somewhere in the rear.  Another pair of running shoes echoed behind him.  Just as he turned to look back the sound stopped.

His shallow breath overtaken by his pounding heart awakened a sense that danger lurked near.  As far as he could tell, someone or something watched while he stood still like a helpless animal.

When he continued his run his thoughts returned to the asylum where he stood over his mother's bed. He almost jumped out of his skin when she grabbed his hand with her bony, puny digits.  Her cold fingers hooked him like tight handcuffs.
 
"Shorty, I have--"

She struggled to complete her sentences.  For the last five years she lay in solitary confinement without so much as uttering a word to anyone.  Upon seeing Shorty, something clicked inside of her and she grappled for the right words to tell her son.

"Something to tell you."

Shorty remained cold and distant.  On Mother's Day his friends bought their mothers presents, but every year he found a patch of dirt and buried cards his teachers forced him to make.  Then he plucked a rose from a neighbor's garden and placed it on the makeshift grave.  To him, his mother died every year.

"You had a twin brother."

Shorty's eyes sharpened at the shocking revelation.  All his life he sensed something missing, something that was truly a part of him.

"What twin brother?"

"Jesus." She gripped his hand tight. "His name was Jesus."

"Where is he?" Shorty did not like her use of the past tense.

"He died.  You lived."



Movement in the trees behind him caught his attention and once again he stopped running.  This time the footsteps inched closer.  The sun's glare stood at his back.  A dark shadow approached from a distance.  He wanted to wait but something did not feel quite right.  His injured knee weighed him down.  Shorty raced off and continued his run.

Sometimes irony plays an important role in people's lives.  They make decisions trying to avoid unpleasantries only to have fate throw those same unpleasantries in their faces.

Shorty marveled at his patience for listening to the woman whose voice he could not bear to hear in the past.  His tiny ears honed in on her every word soaking every syllable, every whisper.  His eyes clouded when she described how his twin brother, born five minutes after him, struggled for breath.  The doctors refused to show the baby she named Jesus, but when she threatened them, a nurse held up the puny corpse, normal from the waist up.  In fact, Jesus came out identical to Shorty in every aspect except one.  The doomed child had no legs.

Even as Shorty's mother let go of her last breath, he did not shed a tear.  His water-filled eyes blurred his vision because he pictured his twin brother lying on the bed next to her, transparent, reaching out to him.  His pleas, silent at first, took shape when Shorty read his lips.

"Run!"

Jesus mouthed the words, "Run for me."

Shorty loosened his mother's fingers and placed the cold hands on her bosom.  He read her blank stare and shut her eyes forever.  The vision of his twin brother, no longer on the bed, vanished.



Shorty approached the last half mile of his run.  Meanwhile, the sun's rays announced that today would prove to be a scorcher.  The realization of being a twin gave him the creeps.  The feeling that when he ran, a presence watched his every move and waited in the shadows struck at the very core of his existence.

His championship stride faltered a bit as he pressed his weight on his sore knee.  Then a duplicate set of pounding sneakers mimicked his every stride.  A dark shadow emerged over him.  The temptation to stop and face his tormentor gave way to sheer dread.

He sighed when thoughts of giving up his scholarship and dreams of Olympic gold crept into his mind.  Once again, he stopped.  This time he grabbed his knee.

"Ouch!"

His dormitory less than three hundred yards away awaited him with all the luxuries a star athlete could want.  The two coeds that slept in his bed would be up preparing his breakfast and running his bath.  His two sports cars were being buffed by the underclassmen who worshipped him.

Until yesterday, Shorty never realized that he did everything in pairs.  Upon discovering the previous existence of his brother, solitude distorted into an alarming misery.  His previous supreme state of confidence wavered.  Now he ran to forget instead of embracing his allegiance to a dynamic force.

He rose from his crouch prepared to run to his dorm, when he realized that the stalking footsteps which pursued him earlier ceased.  Now two shadows reflected off the dirt road.

"Hello brother."

Shorty jumped back when a young man with his own image smiled at him.

"Jesus?"

The man, an exact replica of Shorty, stood upright wearing identical clothing.

Jesus said, "It's my turn Shorty."

"Your turn for what?"

Jesus grinned but said nothing.  Shorty marveled at his brother's chiseled legs.

"I thought you died." Shorty said.

"You kept me alive every time you ran.  Why do you think you won all of those races?  We did it together."

Shorty shook his head.  "I must be dreaming." He stumbled.

"It's my turn Bro."

"Your turn for what?"  Shorty fell on the ground.  His legs failed him.

Jesus pointed at Shorty's knee and said, "To make history."

"What are you saying? What's happening to me?"

"Your attitude reeks of failure because you're too worried about your knee.  Now it's my turn to carry us across the finish line."

"No. I won't do it!"

Shorty tried to get up but his feet became transparent.

"Don't worry Shorty.  Every time I run, you'll run with me.  Together we'll continue to be unbeatable."

Shorty's legs faded away.  "This can't be happening!" He cried.

Jesus smiled and said, "We'll take the Olympic gold medal together.  It's our destiny."

Shorty screamed but the sound faded away along with the rest of him.  Standing in one shadow, Jesus spit on the ground, kicked dirt on Shorty's knee brace and ran to a new beginning.