Most of time in the evenings when the cicadas squalled the loudest, Circe would run through the fields of tall sweet grass Until she thought her heart would explode. Then she would sag to the ground and scream until the world fell silent around her. Waiting to see if today would be the day she gave in. Waiting to see if her tears would stop or if the wounds would stop hurting altogether.
In the end though each night she would pick herself back up walk to the house and crawl into the rickety Dog box she slept in which was situated under a tree in the yard. It was at least bigger than the coal bin she was given in the Cellar during the cooler months. Her world was small, the bin, the box, the house, the field, and the truck. Each day a horror that she never escaped that she just survived because she had to.
The runs usually happened after the truck day. Circe would awaken and feel like her skin was going to buzz off of her. Nothing helped her but to run. And run she did for hours. Until the sun sank and the moon rose and the lights in the sky twinkled and danced. Until she couldn't do anything else.
The run didn't really help. But she wished it would. The run Reminded her that there was no escape no way to be free of it all. The run reminded her that she was caged. Trapped. Alone.