Short Stories

Yes it can

Running, footsteps coming closer, sweaty palms, sweaty forehead. Sweat everywhere. Maybe even tear-stained cheeks. He's coming. He has a knife. A big one. It's big and It's going to cut him open if he doesn't keep running. So he does. 

He doesn't even know where he's going. He can't see for the life of him. It's all dark but it's cold and wet. He doesn't know what the liquid is that he is running through, but he simply does not care. He isn't sure if he even wants to know. 

He can't see the color but he can feel it slowly soaking his shoes. All he can remember is running. Nothing else. But he will not stop running. Not until the footsteps stop. The ones behind him, threatening to catch up with him. 

He can almost feel the knife seeping into his skin. The blood that spills from his body. The agonising pain in his back. 

His feet are getting tired and his mind is clouded. He is close to passing out. He needs to stop running. But he never will. 

Because if he stops running, he will stop breathing, living and feeling. He'll get the knife in his back. Hell die of a loss of blood. He'll be in pain and he'll start to feel lightheaded, until death frees him. 

But then, something happens. He wakes up in a sweat, gasping for air. He turns fast, looking at his surroundings. He's in his bedroom. His eyes are wide and the fear still boils inside of him. 

He tries to calm himself down, "I'm safe." 

"No. You're not." a small voice comes from the corner of his room. It's dark in that corner. 

"Pardon?" he says. No answer. 

"The knife can't hurt me." he whispers to himself. But suddenly a long, shiny knife appears,

"Yes it can."