Boombox

Run Boy Run

"Run boy run! This race is a prophecy

Run boy run! Break out from society"

-Woodkid 

 

He sprints. Faster than any other human, pushing his legs, feet barely touching the solid ground before they lift themselves and race against time. His ragged breaths and the rustling of leaves are the only noise in the air along with the furious shuffling of his feet. He runs in the speed of light, not stopping for the sake of his tortured joints, not even for his begging lungs warning him of their collision. Whenever he felt the velocity was reducing, he gulped a larger amount of air and pushed his body to the unknown. He was challenging the world. Fleeing never felt so liberated.

    

He was on a ladder that reached the sky. He would touch it with his head first, smell the clouds and drown in the blueness. 

But for now, all he had to do was run.

Run because death was waiting on both ends. Roads were blocked by the dark grey fog and the sky was looming heavy on his shoulders.

"Run, boy, run!" echoes were stranded in every corner.

Tangled roots struggle on the ground and cuts cover his mellowed skin. He pushes branches out of his way, the labyrinth is finally opening up to him, and the darkness he was absorbed in changed colors to a lighter shade by each mile. All the angst and pain were fading amongst the trees and the merciless branches. Saplings stand tall and proud in crook of the forest's neck, urging the boy to hurry. The wind whistled a tune comforting the boy to his triumph despite his losses. He left everything behind.

But after all, a human's greatest possession is his soul. He saved his soul, yet lost the treasure of others'.

His fight hasn't finished.

He was still being chased. They wanted the boy, alive or dead. He acted as a human, and for that cruelty was ensured.

He needed this escape. He needed to survive. Victors of fate.

Tomorrow is another day, and you won't have to hide away

He could still feel his mother's last breath near his ear, telling him to live. He could still feel his sisters' arms around his shoulders tightly hugging him to their chests.

Oh, all those waste of human souls. Oh to all the murders that took control.

His path was drawn to a close.

His bleeding feet and tired heart were about to sigh and rest.

He could distinguish the bursting light from between the bushes. His scarred bony hand reached out, wanting to feel the relief. Instead of sensing a heat of some sort, his hand was enclosed in another. Then another. Then pairs of hands were grasping for his forearms and lifting him from an immoral ground. He had escaped.

He was journeying from the wrench of his lost family to the coldness of heartless beings to a pair of hands. Hands and running were his saving grace. He was a victor after all. A shaken survivor of the ashes of dead.

He stole a glance at the sky and whispered a beautiful word to the kindred souls. His voice was all the remained of him. A sound and an iron will.   

His race was never against time, time was the race itself.

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A/N: this was vastly inspired by max vandenburg, my secret lover. just needed to say that. have a wonderful night/day.