"History, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." – James Joyce.
Muscle memory.
The stadium was empty, but between one blink and the next, I could hear them.
The crowd.
I could feel my heart beating in my neck.
I could smell the tartan as I walked onto the field.
Eight lanes, I crossed them all until I stopped in lane one.
"Emily Finch." My name echoed through the stadium; a ghost of a sound carried away with the wind.
Feet stomped on the concrete; a punishing beat meant to carry me across the finish line but all I felt was its distressing effect on my heart.
My fingers were numb. I wiggled them in trepidation.
"On your marks."
I swallowed down the bile, the stress, the emotion. One foot in front of the other, all my weight shifted to my right foot.
"Get set."
You don't stop until you cross the line first.
My eyes shot open with the gun sound.
And it all disappeared.
I was alone in the stadium, getting ready to win against competitors who didn't exist.
Muscle memory.
I could still feel my heart beat in my chest, my fingernails digging into my palm. I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath.
I dropped my track spikes onto the ground and fished the lighter from my pocket.
It flicked to life in my palm. A small little flame ready to destroy.
I could hear the crowd. Cheering, roaring.
And then I lit them on fire.
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FanfictionShe was born to win. When Emily Finch took her first steps, she didn't walk. She ran. A prodigy in the making. Her whole life ruled by a ticking stopwatch. Sweat, blood, tears and secrets. She would remember her father's words. A prologue to every...
