Left Behind

1/Running

Running. Panting. Sweating. Burning. I snatch a glance behind me, lending me a snippet of what awaits if I falter. It isn't pretty.

A harrowing roar rattles down the corridor, reverberating between the shadowy walls and the harsh iron floor. That's my cue: go faster. And I do. Peg it- well, more than I already was.

I then feel an itch slowly creeping up on my lungs, a tickle at the root of my throat. I keep running all the same. Somewhere in the ever-distant distance, I swear there's an exit. I mean, this corridor has to end eventually. Right?

A stray ember latches itself onto my bear ankle, searing the skin and marring the muscle. Again, I keep running. I know that means it's gaining on me, but I can't check over my shoulder again. Then it'll get me.

That prickle springs at my chest again, but I can't let myself cough. I can't. Then it'll get me. And the pursuing sparks attack my feet, my cloak, the split-ends of my hair. I could burst into flame at any second. But I can't stop to put it all out. Then it'll get me.

And I can't let that happen. I cannot. I refuse.

My footsteps echo around me: pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The sound of its countless metal talons on the ground thunders in my ears: clang, clang, clang, clang. And the crackling inferno of its heart burns on, snapping and rumbling and crackling and mumbling to itself in that arcane, cryptic, stupid language that fires always speak in.

A door. Thank fuck, there's a door. At the end of the corridor, there, I can see it. That thing's footfall has spawned enough ash so that the corners of my vision are blurred, but there it is all the same. An actual door. Clear and solid and glowing and begging to be opened.

I pick up the pace even more, digging deeper than ever into my last ebbing reserves of energy. My converse flats slap harder than ever on the flat metal floor, and my throat is parched drier than ever by the gulps of arid air. But still I run.

It's getting closer. Closer than before, I mean. And getting exponentially closer with every passing moment. Again, more than it already was.

Then suddenly I feel the jagged edge of its claw scrape against my calf, staggering me- but only for a second. Just that one damn second. But it's fine.

It's fine, I think to myself. It's fine, I mentally scream, as I keep moving forward, feeling the soft trickle of blood taunt its way down to my bare heel; as I feel the flaming heat of that thing creep closer and more intense, wincing as even more embers find their agonising marks upon my body. As I hear its cruel breath, as ragged as my own, hungry and delighting in the hunt.

We're nearly there. I'm nearly there. Just a little further, not too far of a distance. The door is mere moments away, I can feel it. Then again, as is my assured annihilation, so...

I stretch out my right hand- I think it's my right, never been too good with directions- fingers splayed and ready to throw the doorway open. I can practically feel the handle in my grip; its cool metal edges, curved and aged from use. That's what I imagine, at least. My eyes are having a hard time focusing, so it really could look like anything. Could be a doorknob. Or it could not even have a handle at all, just one of those "push to open" ones- who knows.

But then a thought worries me. One that hits me hard in the belly, and staggers more than any ash or scratch or embers ever could.

What if it's locked? What if they locked me out here with this thing? After everything it did, everything I did. What if they still left me here, locked the exit and threw away the key?

My hand's still outstretched, still ready. My legs are still pumping, still working. That thing is still chasing, still coming.

It's too late. Too late to let that get to me now. I just have to act; just do, just keep on keeping on. Chug on, full speed ahead [don't look back at it]. Barrel ahead, all steam to engines and ready forward [its claws are on your back now, don't think about that]. Focus on the thump of your shoes on the smoothed ground, the feel of sweet breath on your throat [that blood is running: just keep running]. The door's bright light is brightening, just keep your eyes dead-centre ahead [everything else is ash and dead embers anyway, the door is all that you have left].

Two steps away. Two steps from heaven. Hell awaits behind you. Two steps away.

My hand takes hold of the handle- there is a handle- and I push down. It moves. Aha! It is open. It isn't locked! Haha! My shoulder meets the door, my entire weight forcing it open as I launch myself at the frame, eyes shut tight in absolute desperation and desperate absolution.

And, sure enough, it gives.