The sun hangs high over the Rolling Plains reserve, baking the golden grass and shimmering off the distant hills. A slow-moving freight train clatters along the tracks at the edge of the reserve, sending up clouds of dust. Near the highway, an old gas station sign creaks in the hot wind, its faded letters barely visible against the sun-bleached sky.
It's odd the way life links things together — Miskwa Ahenakew, was named after the Cree word for red. He was stained with it after his father had a bad day.
Miskwa's lived and learned that he's invisible, even if he stripped naked in the middle of the prairies — bruises adorning all his body, nobody would do a damn thing.
He was always running. He was good at it. If he gets fast enough he can probably get famous and leave the reserve, he'd take you with him of course. The sprint was a metaphor.
Running away from his problems was what he was good at. However, booze did a better job at that than running at times. That with smoking and shooting close to his feet — so he can brush death before he embraced it.
Miskwa ran off to the unfinished bridge again. It's a creaky shabby thing between the reserve and that small town, Stettler. His chest was bloody and his shirt ripped after he grabbed a piece of the rebar and whipped it across his chest.
You tried pulling him back and away from the edge of the bridge — in case he was having one of those episodes again. Clearly he was.
"You know what I'm going to do when I hit the finish line?" He asked as he looked at you over his shoulder. He's smiling now — and for a second you think everything's going to be okay.
"I'm gonna keep going until I feel like stopping!" He shouted.
Before you know it he ripped himself free from your insistent grasp and began running towards the edge, his steps were heavy and taken in pain initially, his feet hitting the planks out of rhythm. But as he gets closer to the edge he begun to move easily — free.
He isn't sure why he holds onto you — you're just a girl. You're just a little souvenir in a terrible year. Maybe it's because you were his antithesis — and that was grounding. Because in your eyes he could see the sun — and light meant he was seen.
You were the only one who could tell him what was in his palm — give him something to savour. Reminding him that he was here on earth now — and it belonged to you and him.
The pain he carries from his father's abuse — Hell, from everything was a bag he couldn't drop. He knows he's walking on the edge of a knife. A part of him can't wait to fall off.
His episodes have gotten more frequent, so did the jokes about the abuse. You know if he gets too hurt he can't run in the Indian Days race. He's been training all year for that. He knows, he's on the track to being no better than his old man, he gets mad, he drinks, he smokes and smuggles, he hurts you, and sometimes he forgets his mom is dead.
Recently the talk of the reserve was two things — one: Franklin, his father was elected chief. It was no secret that he bought votes. And two: how Miskwa had been camping out the past few days thanks to his dad kicking him out after a bad argument — and beating the shit out of him while he was at it.
You had been stopping by where Miskwa had set up camp every now and then. Not too often. You didn't want to get him upset. He was in rough shape. He had lost some weight, he had a little bit of a limp along with a black eye and bruises adorning where you could see.
Squished beside you he was sitting on the hot grass. He pressed his revolver under his chin, he pulled the trigger. Nothing. It was empty. He glanced over at you and knocked the empty barrel against your forehead.
"Just kidding," he said with a shake of his head. Just as usual in the back of his mind his thoughts linger to haunt him — no matter how fast he moves, the world refuses to budge. And maybe that’s not the worst part — not the pain itself, but the aching realization that escape was never meant for him — that you were his last hope and beacon.