It goes right by you.
It’s a fastball pitch, and you a kid in mismatched little league uniform pants and your brother’s hand-me-down cleats. You rush past all the mile markers, in a hurry for that promised land that’s somewhere up there, past the stuff you have right now, beyond the little turmoils you’ve got going on.
Friends are transitory, loved ones taken for granted in the manic surge toward whatever’s out there, whatever dream world you’ve built up in between soft drinks on your lunch break. You forget that the good stuff, the creamy nougat center of the candy bar is right now. It’s the people that you see around you at the coffee shop when you’re waiting for your Americano. It’s the friends who’ll come and help you move that couch.
And then you’re on the floor, bleeding out from a gaping wound in your femoral artery, no amount of pressure holding the gout of deep red inside now, and the creature that stands in the doorway watches with a dispassionate eye, violet around the molten sun of its iris, one predatory hand clacking its talons against the door frame as it waits for your passing.