Unspoken: The Anthology

Running

I'm running. I can't stop. When did I start? I'm not even so sure myself. I know it was a long time ago, though. I was very young, barely learning multiplication when I started. Funny thing, you see. I didn't even have to be moving to be running. I could be all smiles during a lunch break but still feel my perpetual, thundering heartbeat. I could never catch a break. I couldn't even feel the momentary reprieve when I had the chance to drink water. I slid down my throat too quickly, leaving me as thirsty as before. I clung to the water bottle. Maybe if I held it long enough, I'd never be thirsty. So I cling to it like it's my life force. But I'm still running dry. I still want more.

Sometimes, I convince myself I'm doing good. It's a lie though. I never stop running. I only get faster and slower. Better and worse. Never the start and the finish. Never good and bad. I should stop. There's a way to quit. I'm sure of it—a way to be content without reaching the finish line. But I can't find it. I can only see the finish line. But it gets further away from me the closer I come. I hope I fall to my knees. I hope it causes my death. I'd rather die than run more. But the race is still going. I'm sure there's a prize at the end. I'm sure everything will be better when it's over. I'm sure it'll be over soon. I'm sure it'll be over. It has to be. It has to. I'm running, feet planted on the ground.