With escape there is always the inevitable return; truth's officers patrol the perimeter plotting your apprehension, posting wanted flyers and setting up road-blocks. Often it's when you don't expect it, when you think you've lost them for good - the sweet smell of freedom spreading quickly through the air - that they appear. Wearing silver sunglasses, impenetrable as mirrors, reflecting the fear and loathing and desperation on your face straight back into your eyes, with all the harshness of the sun.
Then your pleas fall like leaves on their deaf and intractable ears. Muffled whimpers and ardent bargains miscarried in obstinacy. The painful realization sinks in like needles as you're seated on a pin-cushion inside an interrogation room. Then the photos cataloging your crimes are laid out before you. Pictures of you on all fours, your feckless silhouette scrambling through shadows, crawling through thin tunnels looking more rat than man. That smug look of success and satisfaction as you thought you'd finally found a way out.
"How long did you think you could run?"
Until I couldn't.
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