Born 01 - Born

through the backdoor, even though there is no front or back. There are only doors. They don't go anywhere anymore, because there is no direction.
    Nothing goes anywhere.
    I position the heavy pack on my back carefully. It contains jars full of heart and soul and survival. Each jar is like a kiss from the old lady who canned and pickled her own farm fresh vegetables. I assume there are no preservatives, no added salt, and no colorings. There aren't any labels to contradict it. For all I know, she was using MSG in everything. I smile at the letters MSG; they meant something to me once.
    That was before.
    I fight back memories of nice old ladies and the world before. I have been to many worlds in my life, and being nineteen feels more like fifty most days.
    I harden my heart and feel my instincts sharpen as the hate surges through me. I take a deep breath and creak the door open, as if the wind has opened it. I close it again and open it. It looks like the wind coming off the brown dry fields is playing with the door.
    My animal eyes focus on the dirt yard. Nothing moves beyond the dust playing in the light. I should be waiting for night to travel, but I have stayed too long this time. I need to get back. Things only live so long alone. I know this well. My garden has died many times before.
    The old barn door swings in the soft breeze, making it creak slightly as the long brown grass sways and the dusty driveway pebbles scuttle along. Everything moves in sync with the wind.
    I had to learn how to spot this.
    I pull the door open and cringe. I know this is always the worst part of the walk home. I hate leaving this house.
    I feel my eyes squint shut as the intense light of the sun nearly blinds me. My pack feels like a ton of bricks but I take my first steps, desperate for it to be over with already. I don’t jostle the pack too much. I don’t want to break any jars. I have learned that pickle juice is hard to get out and backpacks are even harder to find.
    Walking across the gravel and dirt driveway to the field is the worst. It's wide open to the yard. I look around, walking with my shotgun in my hand. I practice regularly at home with my rifle and silencer, but on the road I always bring the shotgun.
    It's my lucky gun. The cold thick metal of it makes me feel strong, even though I know what strength is.
    Strength is not pulling the trigger. At this point I have yet to prove my strength to myself. I always take the coward’s path. Just like my dad told me to.
    My boots crunch along. I walk softly, but some noises are unavoidable. The noise will last until I reach the huge wheat fields. Then I will be a whisper in the wheat.
    I enter, not looking back.
    When I reach the field, I know the rule.
    My legs groan under the first steps. My arches ache at the push in the beginning, but after the first quarter mile I start to warm up and my legs enjoy running.
    My back is the biggest issue. The pack is so much heavier than I have ever trained with. I grip the shoulder straps tight till my arms can’t stand it for another second. Even then I push it until I reach the forest.
    I run deep into the woods, always the same side, never the same path, but always the same destination. The branches whip past me, as the edge of the forest is always the thickest where the light penetrates the deepest. As the forest clears, I see him. He's smiling like always. He's calm. He doesn’t run and jump. He waits to ensure I have brought nothing with me. He’s seen them before. He knows how bad it can be. Together we have seen the people get swarmed and taken, usually women.
    “Leo,” I whisper, out of breath.
    Instead of the warm greeting we both want, I turn around and hold my shotgun. I walk backwards as Leo saunters over to watch the forest. We sit behind a tree and wait. After a few minutes, I put the pack down and climb one of the huge trees. The thick branches are rough against my hands. They soften up over the spring when I don't have to chop wood. I sit on a branch and look through my binoculars from the viewpoint.
    I can see the entire field of brown hay from here. I have a weak moment and let myself imagine living in the farmhouse one day and harvesting the hay.
    I feel my eyes strain. I try to find even a single strand of the long grass moving in a way that would signify I have been followed. I look at the farmhouse sitting still and alone. I hope it will sit that way until my next visit. I wait before I pull the binoculars