FLOATING AWAY

CREATIVE DIRECTION: DANÉ STOJANOVIC & MARNE SCHWARTZ
PHOTOGRAPHY: ALBERTO PELAYO
FASHION DIRECTION: ANNA CASTAN
PRODUCER: JESSE VORA
HAIR: ANA RODRIGUEZ
MAKEUP: RICCARDO MORANDIN
MARKET EDITOR: NOUR BOU EZZ
STUDIO MANAGER: INES GUENDOUZ
MODELS: SHANEL / WONDERWALL MANAGEMENT & TAIA / SELECT MODELS MILAN
WORDS: JAMES MCMAHON

I am running. I can feel the sweat on my cheeks. The ache in my thighs. I duck the oncoming branch. I don’t duck enough and leaves rustle on my brow. It hurts a bit, but not long enough to register. I run through puddles, the muddy water staining my leggings, my white trainers now brown. My breaths are short. My chest feels tight. I am running. And I am alive.

I turn out of the forest, into the open field. The grass is tall, I can’t run as fast now, but the stems tickle my arms as I push on through. It starts to rain, softly at first, then harder. I lean my head back and feel the droplets settle, then spread on my tongue. I’m at the end of the field now. A gravel track. There are cars here. I wait for one to pass, and cross the road before the next.

I can feel my body connect with the chrome, it happens too quickly to hurt as much as it should do, then weightlessness, then pain as I drop from the sky to the ground. I can’t feel anything now. I can’t turn my neck. The gravel is as red as it is grey now. I hear screaming. Not from me. When I try I cannot make a sound.

And then somehow, I rise to my feet, shake myself down, correct my posture. But the screaming is gone. As has the gravel. As has the blood. I hear waves now. The hiss of the sea dimming and swelling in sync with my breaths. I start to run again, the soles of my white trainers slapping on wet sand. The spray of the ocean colliding with my breath. My strides are strong. My heart is happy. I am running. And I am alive.

Past the sea wall. Past the palm trees. Onwards I run, until the beach connects with pebbles. Like through the grass, it’s harder to run now. I push on, a little farcically if we’re telling the truth. I’m slipping and sliding as much as I’m running. But still I run. Nowhere to go to, coming from nowhere. I run. And I slip. And I slide. But I run. And I run. And then I buckle. And then it’s black. And then silence.

I can hear the bleep of machines, my ears and eyes freed as the mask is removed from my face. I can’t move my head. Feel my thighs. My chest. My tongue. But at the bottom of the bed I see a man. My doctor. He asks me if I can feel anything. If my body feels anything at all. I blink repeatedly trying to tell him I feel nothing, but to put me back inside the mask.

Back to the forest, back to the beach. But he looks through me, walks out of the room. Tells me he’ll back tomorrow, his hands filled with plastic and wires. I lay motionless, without feeling, though a single tear does runs down my cheek, rests on my lip, then slips into my mouth. I am living, but it’ll be another day until I am alive.

“FLOATING AWAY” IS PUBLISHED IN THE 11TH EDITION OF GRAZIA INTERNATIONAL. ORDER YOUR COPY HERE.