Short Stories

Run

Constantly running. Really, I'm getting tired of the running. Getting cornered at every turn, dragged back to an abyss of inky black. Tripping on guilt and hopelessness, having barely the energy to get back up and keep going on. So I turn and wait for the next chance. Heat of rage and black of hate as a fuel. Sometimes held back by warmth of kindness, keeping me grounded and everything bearable for that much longer. So I just walk at an unsteady pace till it breaks.