The Banshee

Based off Irish folklore

               She won't leave me alone. I can't run. I can't hide. I can't stop her. My legs, once logs, turn to twigs; my lungs the size of two kidney beans, making it impossible to breath. The only thing on my mind is the thoughts of my impending doom. Just the thoughts alone are enough to drive me crazy. No. I need to keep running.

               I can't remember a time when I felt at ease, my head constantly feels like a busy street; never-ending cars; impatient drivers, having somewhere they need to be; and the annoying sound of honking cars goes on for what feels like eternity. The traffic goes back for miles, and it doesn't seem to be moving anytime soon. It doesn't help that my life is a mess. I guess this is just my luck, things always get worse and worse.

               I can't go on much longer. Running is so tiring. Even with all the practice in the world, you never get used to how much it drains you. It seems like all I do now is run. Whether it be from my problems, from myself, from reality, or from... her. It never stops. I am tired. I am tired of running.

               It's been so long since I lived in the present, the thoughts of the future crowd my mind. Where even am I? The bitter fall wind makes me quiver. It's pitch black, I can hardly see three feet in front of me as I run farther into the abyss of the night. All I see is death. Hairless trees loom over my head, and the leaves, which fell from them, cover the ground. I'm just like these trees, preparing for my death. Luckily these trees will revive again in the spring, can't say the same for me.

              She must be catching up. How can I outrun someone like her? Should I check? No. No I can't. Even thinking about turning around is dangerous, let alone actually doing it. There isn't an option; it's either life or death.

               My heavy footsteps echo out, causing an illusion of someone chasing me. Ironically, someone was chasing me, she just doesn't have feet. My feet are bloody and bare. I'm unsure if I even had shoes on in the first place. My mind's only focused on running. Even if my legs fall off from the pain, at least I'll be alive, probably.

               Besides my loud feet, I hear the soul-sucking screams coming from... her. Not the kind of screams you hear from kids, out having fun at recess. These screams are deadly. The kind that rupture eardrums. As if someone were to scream into a bullhorn placed right next to my head. The screams cause red to vigorously pour from my ears, trickling onto my sweaty, white t-shirt, making it some sort of twisted abstract art. Maybe my eardrums will soon succumb to her screeching, so I can be peacefully deaf. I don't need my hearing anyway, all it does is cause me heartache. The sounds of crying are far too familiar to my ears, whether it be from myself, my sister, my mom, or... her. Even in this madness, I still worry for my mother.

                 My sister and I were called down by our mother. She wanted to sit down and have a talk. Which was unusual. Me, my sister, and my mom all lived by ourselves for the past seventeen years. Our dad left us sometime after I turned one, mom didn't like to talk about him much. My sister, being 5 years older than me, remembered him a bit. Although, much like our mother, she didn't like to talk about him either. I wasn't exactly sure what it was that made dad so terrible. All I knew was that one morning he didn't wake up with us, nor did he want to. Whether it was too much stress, or too many bills to pay, or maybe he just didn't like us, gave him enough reason to leave us. If I was to choose one word to describe my dad it would be, selfish. I wondered if now was the time mom would talk about dad. Looking back, I wish it was about dad, but what she said to us was much worse.

               I trip. My knees meet the frigid asphalt creating a pool of blood. My hands desperately reach out for balance. The palms of my hands violently slide along the road, making my hands look as if I had just dipped them in a bucket of dirty red paint. With the blood comes pain; endless, intolerable pain. I lay on the ground, motionless. She's probably caught up by now. I have to get up.