Free The Problem With Crazy by Lauren McKellar Page B

wondered if anyone inside the buildings were looking out at me, like I’d looked out at the young girl, and if they’d make up stories like I had. If they tried to envision themselves as the stranger sprinting down the concrete path.
    A thin layer of sweat broke out on my back and I rounded another corner. The grounds were massive, and I remembered the map I’d seen out front. There was the counselling ward, a care area, and specialty centres. Each building had the same look and feel, the same staple bricks-and-mortar pattern that managed to be both boring and comforting at the same time.
    My knees raised higher, my feet hit the pavement faster. I felt a light breeze tickle my neck.
    How many other people like me had come in here and freaked out? How many others had this disease?
    My legs moved triple time and I could feel the burn start to creep over me. I pushed, pushed harder and kept going, determined to run until it was no longer a possibility.
    When I felt the sharp pain move from my thighs to my chest, I turned a corner again and slowed to a stop, my hands on my knees, my breath coming short and sharp through my mouth. I gulped down hungry mouthfuls of air, as my legs shook and my heart ached, ripping through my chest.
    It feels so good to hurt.
    So freaking good.
    “You’re—you’re crazy.”
    I shot up and turned around. Jogging over to me was the guy from the tree, cigarette still in hand. Sweat circled his white T-shirt under his arms, and I could see the sheen of dampness on his collarbone. The veins were popping out from his thin, yet lightly muscled arms.
    “I’m crazy? You followed me .” If I’d been unsure of his weirdness before, this confirmed it. You don’t follow someone on a jog around a counselling facility after checking her out. It just wasn’t normal.
    Says the girl with a potential neurodegenerative disease.
    The stranger held up a single finger as if to say “one minute”, then flopped down on the grass, flat on his back, and stretched his arms and legs out as far as they could go. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in dramatic peaks and troughs. His left hand was raised, the cigarette hovering dangerously close to the grass.
    “You shouldn’t smoke.” I stared disdainfully at the offending item, orange embers still faintly glowing.
    “I’m not … I’m not a smoker.” The guy gave me a tiny smile before turning his head to the blue sky above.
    “You’re clearly smoking.” I crossed my arms.
    “I’m just trying it,” he said, eyes locked on a marshmallow puff of a cloud in the distance. “It’s important to try new things.” His breath was more controlled now, slowing down to something like a normal rate. So was mine. I focused on not breathing at the same time as him.
    “When people say that, I don’t think they mean try things that can kill you.” I snorted. I eyed the patch of grass next to him. I was exhausted, physically and mentally from the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days, and I wanted to join him.
    Or I would want to join him, if he wasn’t a creep who had checked me out, and then followed me.
    A cute creep.
    “On the contraire .” The stranger grinned. “I think that’s exactly what they mean.”
    I furrowed my brows and turned away. “Look, it was nice to meet you, but—”
    “What about ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’?” he interrupted. I widened my eyes in disbelief.
    “What about it?”
    “Well, surely the things that make you stronger have to stand a chance of killing you, hence the distinction in the sentence.”
    “So you think the more you smoke, the stronger you’ll be?”
    “No.” The boy turned his head and locked his dark eyes with mine. “I’m just saying I’m going to try everything once, and if it hurts, or it gets hard, it’s going to be worth it. It’s about living in the present. Having no regrets.”
    I flitted my eyes skyward and turned away. He was “one of those.”