Story #29 - Put It In Park

Put It In Park

I can't be sure where they're taking me – this route is unfamiliar.

While I've tried to outrun them, common sense demands that I return no matter the situation as they hold my only means of nutrition, my only way of staying alive. It's not as though they've treated me badly, but some of their number are less inclined to acknowledge my existence at all.

The path itself is not unpleasant, though I can't make out any landmarks I recognize, any places that I could dip into the woods and never return. I might be able to forage for food for a time but there are others on this route that would give me away, things no more than beasts that would howl out my presence to anyone who would listen.

I'm being as careful as I can now; in my first weeks with this group I attacked several of their number and was made to spend time chained up in a filthy dungeon, fed well but alone.

My only thought is to focus on the task at hand, to continue moving forward and attempt to be as positive as I can. Each step I take at their command, but each meter I move makes me stronger, better able to resit should I so choose.

I must admit, however, that my instinct for freedom, my desire to be independent is fading. Each raging stance I take, each defiant sound I make leaves me weakened and the group that claims me is only too willing to exploit that weakness. I've struggled with the fact that I often feel like giving up, like letting the lethargy that has been creeping up on me win. Perhaps it would be simpler, perhaps it would give me a measure of peace.

This turn is familiar; this roadway something I'm sure I've seen. I've done my best to create a map of this area in my mind but I'm often taken to unfamiliar places before they set me free for brief moments, knowing that my possibility of escape is so minimal as to be ignored. Often, I am allowed to move about without any bonds save the identification they have wrapped around my throat and in truth they are probably right to let me go. I am desperately in need of moments to run, to imagine I am without them for periods of time, even if I cannot escape them altogether, and they seem to know this.

I'd call my captors cruel but that does not appear to be a description to best suit them. Some are – the smaller ones, at least – but some try to make my captivity as comforting as possible. These I can understand, even empathize with, but I cannot give in.

There – up ahead! A break in the fence, a way that perhaps my captors do not yet know. Running through is a risk – others of my kind are nearby and may attempt to raise an alarm as I go.

Quickly now – I just need a few more feet. The large one isn't looking – if I simply -

Ugh.

I'm in the dirt again, facedown.

Somehow they've attached me, tethered me to their hands. I often wonder at this object's existence, where it comes from and how I am never able to predict its coming. Each day, I am sure I have been granted a respite from it but then a movement, a shift in body position shows me that I have been wrong.

I struggle, anger burning hot in my veins. Can't these fools see that I will never be broken, never be cowed?

A heavy weight is upon me, a soothing tone drifts to my ears.

“It's OK, it's OK.”

How is it OK? How is this a feasible, tenable situation? How can I endure?

Strangely, the weight calms me, slows the thudding in my chest and restless movements of my legs. I have noticed this recently, a Stockholm-like desire to simply let go, to endure what I have been given and bear it with pride. Perhaps, just to make it simpler...

I relax and the weight is removed, a thin hand coming down to gently touch my head. Anger flares but I push it down – this one is the best of the lot and is trying his best to ensure that I am not mistreated.

He pulls gently on my tether and I move forward, few other options presenting themselves. My brethren look on, faces slack and eyes vacant as I pass by. Not one cries out, not one darts to my rescue, though I can be accused of the same. We are a broken people.

Perhaps we enjoy it. Perhaps we must be controlled for the sake of our captors. We are certainly more mobile than they, more agile and more determined, and their fear of us is understandable. Some choose not to take us in and I can see the fear in their eyes as my kind passes them by, see the quick steps they take to avoid us, the shuddering breaths they draw until we are gone.

This clearing looks vaguely familiar – perhaps we've been here before?

Beside me, the captor's footsteps are speeding up, his body slanting forward. He is eager to reach his destination. I keep pace, my struggle momentarily dampened. There will be another day, another struggle to endure, though I worry my will is failing, my desire to resist giving out.

A vehicle looms ahead – a thing of blue and and black shining softly in lowering sun. Part of it shifts, splitting away from the body and an opening at its end is revealed, a hole large enough that I could easily fit through.

The car.

We're back at the car.

I drive forward, shoulders bunching and my master keeps pace. We're almost there. Almost there.

A quick leap takes me up and into the car and I land gracefully on the padding placed there for me.

“Good boy.” My master rubs my head affectionately. “We'll come back to the park again tomorrow.”

- D