Run With The Devil

The Blur of Silence

Lyra

Lyras pov

I don't remember what it's like to be still. Maybe I never knew.

The white walls close in around me, thick and cold. I'm not sure how big the room really is. To me, it feels small-smaller every time they make me run. I can't ever stop running. If I do, the pain comes back, the needles come back. So I keep moving.

The heart monitor is stuck to my chest, its cold surface pressing into my skin. The wires tangle and pull at my arms sometimes, but it doesn't matter. I'm fast. Too fast. They say I run like the wind. But I don't know what wind feels like. I've never been outside.

In my eyes, everything around me looks slow. Like time is breaking apart, each second stretched into forever. The scientists, standing outside the glass, don't move. Their eyes follow me, but they look frozen, their hands still as they scribble on their notepads. Sometimes, I wonder if they can even see me anymore. I'm just a blur to them now.

The floor beneath my feet hums. I can feel the vibrations, but the sound is muffled by the constant thudding of my heart. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each beat a little faster, a little harder, as I push myself. I'm supposed to keep going-until the room is nothing but streaks of color, until my legs feel like they might break.

I don't stop.

I can't stop.

The walls flash by, white then gray, white then gray. There's a hum in the air, the faint buzz of the machines monitoring me, but it's distant. The only thing I hear is my heart, beating too fast, too loud, and the rush of air that doesn't exist in this room. There's no air in here, just me and the blur of everything.

My legs burn, but I ignore it. I always do. The pain is like a shadow, something that clings to me, always there. It never goes away, just like the scientists watching me. Always watching, always writing down what I am, what I'm becoming.

They say I'm special.

But special doesn't feel good. Special feels like being trapped, like running and running but never getting anywhere.

I close my eyes for a second. Just a second. It's the only time things feel normal. When I open them again, everything is still so slow. Too slow. I'm faster than everything around me. Faster than time. Faster than fear.

But not faster than the cage.

My feet hit the floor again and again, a steady rhythm that makes my whole body hum with the effort. There's nothing else I can do. If I stop, they'll make me start all over again. So I push harder, faster, until my muscles scream and my chest feels tight like it's caving in. But I don't stop. I never stop.

A voice crackles over the speaker above me, cold and distant.

"Subject 019, maintain speed. Increase velocity by 10 percent."

I grit my teeth and push harder. The blur becomes even blurrier, the edges of the room stretching further into nothingness. My heart monitor beeps faster, but it's barely a sound anymore. Everything around me fades away, except for the feeling of the walls closing in and the sharpness of my breath.

I am fast.

But I am still trapped.

The door doesn't open for me. It never does. The glass is too thick, the people behind it too far away. They stare at me with those blank faces, those eyes that never change, never feel. I wonder if they even know my name. I wonder if they care.

Probably not.

I am just a number. I am just something to test. Something to break.

I keep running.

I keep running until the room is nothing but white streaks and the walls blend together. The floor disappears under my feet, and for a moment, it feels like I'm not even touching it anymore. I don't know how long I've been running. It could be hours. It could be days.

But I won't stop. Because I'm not allowed to. Because I'm afraid of what happens when I do.

And then, in the blur, I hear something. A sound that doesn't belong.

"Enough."

The room slows down. My legs don't want to stop, but I have to. My feet stumble, my body jerks forward, almost collapsing. I skid to a halt in the middle of the room, my chest heaving, the heart monitor beeping wildly. The world catches up to me, the slowness turning back to normal speed.

I look up, through the glass. The scientists are still watching. They're always watching.

But for now, I get to rest.

For now, I get to breathe.

But I know it won't last.

It never does.