There is an aching in the soles of my feet. A pain in my ankles. My legs have all but given up on me as I race through the tall tan grass of the field. The sun beats down on my neck and back from a cloudless blue sky. My eyes peel wider and my breath tears from tired lungs as my fear of what follows me grows. I know looking back would be a fatal mistake, and it is far too beautiful a day to die.
I dive further into the tall grasses, my bare feet beat at the dry ground. I can hear nothing but my own quiet, panicked sobs and the blowing of the wind through dry grass. I mutter muted prayers for some sound of civilization; the rush of traffic, or the clamor of a busy shop. I would even take a scream, or the sound of crying, as long as it was another person- but the logical part of me knows that I am far from anyone or anything human.
I don't know why I'm not giving up. There isn't much hope. I don't even know if there is anything beyond this field, but something in me is shouting. Not shouting in fear, but shouting for life. For just another moment of existence, another minute of pained breathing and pumping legs. It calls for the taste of crisp, warm air, and calls for another second of this pumping adrenaline. It screams and shakes me, pushing me forward, swearing to me that I am alive, telling me that every single sensation is proof of my survival. Every ragged, painful breath, every time my bare foot crashes into the dirt and propels me forward is a testament to the fact that it is not my time, and I must not let the horrors behind me catch up an drag me down into the Hell they promise.
I run faster, faster, and squint through the tears bubbling in my eyes toward the blinding sun ahead of me. I straighten up, raise my head, and let out a guttural scream in accordance with the visceral spirit that claws and scratches and drags me up and demands that I am to survive.
