The trail wasn't much of a trail at all. It was merely the serene streets of neighborhoods, which were tucked pleasantly under various canopies of pine and oak trees. The peaceful nature made the harsh effect of running on concrete bearable.
With every stride jumped a slight bit of pain, and a slight limp. Sometimes the knee, other times the shin. But even when he stopped to stretch he couldn't help but think.
"Man. What a nice neighborhood."
The people passing by, so nice. Walking dogs, or plain just walking. This wasn't by accident. After all, he had chose the streets he ran. He runs these streets.
A couple of blocks over the streets aren't as forgiving. The life seems to be as hard as the concrete, and every sound could be a hint of danger.
The Shameless One walked now. His shower taken, and his destination, a disgusting excuse for a meal at a fast food joint. All the work he'd achieved from running these streets was about to be wiped out by a number 2 with extra grease. He chose this. His pocket chose this as well.
However, now his demeanor hardened in the night hour, as he passed through dilapidated establishments. A man on a rickety bike passes by like a phantom. Shadows of eerie buildings had replaced the comforting canopies, and the dogs barking made him wish he'd brought his blade.
"Where is my blade??" thought the Shameless One, as he walked with a limp. His leg hurt from running, and perhaps it made him easy prey, but he turns his grimace into a stone face, and now his limp is the stereotype. The people walk by the same way.
How can the same serene silence, and even the same breeze become so menacing blocks away?
He sticks to the main road on the way home. Perhaps the passing traffic will put his pampered sensibilities at ease. However, he finds no rest. Trailing behind is a man following on the narrow sidewalk. He Shamelessly listens for his footsteps in between the breaks of vehicular clamor, but they don't seem to be stopping. To the left a group emerges from the apartments with a billow of smoke and a nefarious glance. The sound of his would-be follower seems to intensify with each impact on the concrete, and all he can think is:
"Where the hell is my blade??!!"
And at the height of an impending fight-or-flight scenario, the foot steps cease. Things are quiet.
The Shameless One turns into his street, now comforted by the trees and the porch lights of houses and neighbors he knows. A white Audi coupe passes by like butter. Its fluorescent lights are sure to illuminate the other nice vehicles on the street.