Even after running, it can be hard to tell if you're even breathing. If you aren't, it's probably a good thing since you wouldn't want to be alive anyway. But even if you are, what's the point of that? As if bleeding from old wounds with the help of a tree branch wasn't enough, now you carry the burden of those scars deepening; blood soon will cover the full length of your skin, or rather, a patch of your favorite clothing. In this case, a red hoodie. The night will blind those who seek it, so even if that boy was dead and sprawled on the ground with a gun wound to the head, nothing would change; the night would still be the same night it had been this whole time, through every brutal beating with a belt, every push in a ditch, every night that went through hell. Would it ever change? Would the running ever stop? If it did, would it be because his step-dad had stopped it? Because of a knife or gun wound? Who knew. Blood was already shed through the night, spread on the ground by every staggering step that the boy had took with his stained black shoes. Was this blood his own? He wasn't sure. It all happened too fast, he had woken up to blurry eyes and a feeling of ache and pain. The night couldn't change anything he saw; not the fresh streak of red across his back, not his present, and most definitely, not his future. Feeling dizzy from all the wounds, he fell silently to the ground without disturbing the peace among the forest. Was he dead? No. Did he wish he was? Yes.
