Nowhere to Run

The other kids at school used to say the world was ending. When Bianca came home, tearful and not quite understanding, her mother would give her a comforting hug, tight enough to press her glasses against her face.

"Don't worry, sweet," she said, smiling so kindly that it didn't even occur to Bianca to wonder if it was forced. "They're only trying to scare you."

At the time she believed her. Now she is not so sure.

She doesn't go to school anymore, and she isn't supposed to go outside when her mother is out working.

I don't really want to go outside, either, she thinks as she looks out the window of their rented apartment. She has taken off her glasses, reducing the unfamiliar streets to blurry smears of gray, but even then she can't imagine herself back in her old house. The colours were always brighter, there.

This is not my home.

She is far away from the old tree she used to climb in the front yard, from the park she used to go to with her friends, from her old bedroom's window, where she would watch the twinkling of the stars and bright flicker of streetlights until she fell asleep.

Now home is probably full of holes.

No one knows what to call them, because no one knows what they are- those impossible gaps in the universe, blurs of insubstantial colour where there should have been a wall, or a window, or a tree.

Humanity didn't understand where they had come from or why, only that they were something to fear. They found out quickly that if someone went through them, to whatever lay on the other side... they wouldn't come back.

When the holes got too close to their old house, they moved, then a few months later moved again. The roads are getting busier, everyone driving in the same direction. Bianca is young, and knows little of the world, but she knows this: they are running away. Everyone is running away.

Her mother looked scared this morning, she remembers- smile absent, her rushed hug before leaving far too tight, as if she was afraid to let go.

Bianca squints a little harder through the dirty glass, rubbing at her eyes with one hand as she reaches for her glasses with the other. Something doesn't look quite right out there, she can tell even with her limited vision. She puts her glasses back on and the world clears... except for one spot.

Across the road from the apartment, a small patch of the pavement is beginning to blur. The definition of concrete is lost, paling and swirling like water spilt on still-wet paint.

She watches it for a few minutes as it spreads. It won't come close enough to be dangerous- but she is struck by the feeling that they will be running away again, soon, and so will all the other people here.

Eventually, though, there will be nowhere left to run to.