Remember Them

Mr.Crazy

Instantly, I begin to run.

The low-hanging branches from the towering oak trees reach out for me, grabbing at my torn lab clothes and knotted hair. They want to hold me back, to keep me trapped in their swaying vines so that he could force me back into that hell hole. I wasn't going back. I shove past them, ripping down handfuls of leaves and berries, and tossing them to the ground. I don't dare turn any corners, or try to climb any hills; if I do, he'd be on me quicker than I could imagine. I keep running, but as I do, my legs begin to shake. I convince myself to slow down, but, the fact that can feel his breath on the back of my neck, making my hairs stand on end, encourages my blistered legs to pick up the pace. I don't remember why I'm running, or from who exactly, but, I know that he's after me. The end of the woods slowly shifts into focus. I can now see the rows of police cars and ambulances parked a long mile or so away, blaring their screaming sirens and flashing their strobe red and blue lights. I'm so close to being safe.

"Oh dearest Blythe, how stupid can one be?"

Sudden, sharp, shooting pains overcome my body as I drop harshly on to the ground. Heaps of dirt smother my skin and fill my gasping mouth, suffocating me. I'm thrown down a hill, watching in dismay as the red and blue lights slowly fade into small sparks, until, nothing. It hurts me to think that I was almost there, almost safe from the psychopath that was chasing after me.

I finally stop tumbling, and as I look down at my ankles, I realise why. My ankles are encaged in two closed, large metal bear traps. I scream out in agony, but also in defeat. Blood drains from my burning legs and on to the dirt, forming a muddy substance that attracts a few nearby bugs. I can't look at my legs any longer, but I know that if I look up I'll lock eyes with him. I hear him trudge towards me in a odd pattern. I glance down, and notice that he's limping. Part of me hopes that he had hurt himself, or that someone else had hurt him. He comes closer. I can now see that his right leg is actually a prosthetic one, and that he isn't use to using it. If I slyly take it out from under him, I can try to escape. It sounds like a reasonable plan, if my feet weren't absolutely coated in my own thick red blood.

"Why did you run away?"

It echoes in my head like a scream in a sound proof room. I want to spit in his twisted, fake-tanned face; and claw out his psychotic dark grey eyes. Oh, why did I run Mr.Crazy? Because you're utterly sick in the head and there's no other way to say it.