Smoke: the runaway

Her hands shook as she lit another cigarette in the frigid night air. The wind was gusting off the Atlantic again. The night sky was clear and ruthless, filled with glittering stars you could cut your heart on.

She watched the smoke curling into the beam of light from the back porch light, watched her hands shake with cold, with fear.

She had travelled farther this time, just jumped on a bus and stayed on it until land brushed up against sea.

She inhaled hard, felt the smoke scorch the inside of her lungs, her throat. The rope burns were still visible on her neck and wrists but she didn't see them anymore.

She had one thought and one thought only. Was she safe? Would he find her this time? Had she gone far enough? Was she safe?

She didn't realise the night air pulsed with her harsh whisper, expanding to fill up every bit of space, a creature with its own heartbeat. Am I safe? she whispered over and over again, more incantation than question, while she smoked one cigarette after another, afraid to close her eyes.

The night sky, once a source of wonder, glittered menacingly down upon her bowed head, wreathed in tendrils of cigarette smoke.

[an informal writing challenge]