I keep running.
And running.
And running.
And running.
Reaching for something I can never reach.
But reach I do anyway.
I keep huffing.
And puffing.
And inhaling.
And exhaling.
And drowning my lungs in oxygen to the point I can no longer breathe.
I don't know what I'm running from.
But run I do anyway.
I don't know why I'm running.
But run I do anyway.
One quick look to my back and there I see it.
I see what I'm running from and why I'm running from it.
It's all too familiar but all too foreign.
It's a sight often unseen but yet seen by my very eye.
I can't specifically describe it.
Since the creature I am running from are two beings made into one.
But two beings still.
But shown in one body.
But two beings still.
I keep running.
And running.
And running.
And running.
Reaching for a thing called life I know I can never reach.
I see the light at the end of the tunnel.
It's so painfully close to my fingertips.
I reach.
And reach.
And reach.
And reach.
But I'm too late.
Knife-like fingers grab my legs.
Needle-like arms grab my torso.
Razor-like teeth hover my head.
I scream.
But I'm too late.
.
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.
.
I find a cold chill run down my body.
Eyes open to find darkness.
Ears open to hear her breathing.
Mouth open to taste the cold.
Arms and legs trapped under the covers of my bed.
I can't move a thing.
I sweat though my body is cold.
It's freezing cold.
Yet sweat I do anyway.
I see the monster hover above me.
Its body is covered in black and darkness, dripping down on me like slime. Its eyes are scribbled spirals like monsters seen on a Creepypasta image. Its teeth are still razor-sharp.
I try to move.
I try to cry.
I try to shout.
I try to scream.
But my body remains paralyzed.
It leans closer to me, its revolting breath licking my ears and neck.
"Did you miss me?" It asks.
Eyes meet eyes.
It laughs hysterically.
My eyes widen.
It throws itself on top of me.
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.
I wake up once more.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
