He paced the room. He paced the room. He paced the room. He paced the room. He paced and paced and paced and paced and paced and paced. He paced till his legs were sore. He paced till he couldn't stand. He paced until his knees wouldn't bend, his joints locked stiff. He kept pacing. His feet full of sores, his soles blistering, rubbed raw to what could almost be meat. He kept pacing. His blood soothed his aching feet, providing something other than the cold stone floor to walk on. He couldn't stop moving, he wouldn't stop moving. He was unable to do anything but pace. He kept pacing. His steady gait he kept on for hours and hours finally faltered. He didn't stop moving. He just pulled himself with his arms back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Till he was able to get back in his scabbed feet. And he started pacing again. His wounds opened quickly and he kept pacing. There was nothing to do but pace and pace and pace and pace and pace and pace. Pacing pacing pacing pacing pacing pacing pacing pacing pacing pacing. It was his only movement, his only possible movement. He was trapped. He was in an unfeeling cell, now slick with his own blood and a straight line, an uneven black and dried bloody line. He kept pacing. Why stop pacing when nothing else can be done. It was his fault he was in the mess. He couldn't answer to what was asked of him and it was his fault it was asked in the first place. If only he didn't mess around, if only he didn't force this own situation into fruition. He could've lived on in his somewhat peaceful life. He could've survived till his 40's, going out in what many would've said was too good of a way to die for him. He didn't expect to live long, but he expected to prosper. Now he would be stuck in his 20's, stuck in this cell, till he died. And he was planning on dying here, pacing. Pacing back and forth, till the room was filled with nothing but his blood and nothing but his unending walk. His captors saw him as nothing but crazy, but everyone who didn't know him did. He was a walker, a person who couldn't stay in one place but for a moment and he walked onwards. He couldn't find a place of his own, he couldn't call something his home. He knew better than to burden others and he knew better than to call a place home. So he walk through the world, and made the mistake of getting into something he shouldn't have. He made the mistake of not being able go answer. So he paced the room. And he paced the room. And he paced the room. He paced and paced and paced and paced and paced. And he kept pacing till the end of his days. And he kept pacing till there was nothing left but a rotting husk, moving unware its owners soul had left sometime ago. It kept moving back and forth. Pacing back and forth, till his legs gave out and couldn't move. His soul was gone. To endlessly pace from one end to the other. From one town to a city to a state to a country to a continent to a planet to a moon to a star to a nebula to a galaxy to the ends of what we call our universe. And then beyond till he cannot see. And then he must walk back the way he came. Pacing. Pacing back. Pacing back towards his start. There is no end for him. There is only Pacing. He will never stop, as long as we exist to remember him. He will never be forgotten.
