I run. I feel my lungs heaving. I feel a dizzying rush of the head. I feel a dark crash of blood that marks me dead.

  I see deer. I see squirrels. I see rabbits. We don't look back. We trample over limp little bodies. Their bones crunch like little twigs- of the crisp autumn leaves.

  We don't dare look back.

  I hear them. They pant, thirsty for blood- our blood.

  They sprint. I run. My legs churn through air, arms slicing through sky. My hair flings back, slick and divided with sweat.

  My lungs burn of hell fire.

  They are gaining distance.

  My legs ache as my feet spring off the pavement.

  I can smell torn flesh. The stench reeks and condenses on my nose.

  I can't look down. I can't look back.

  I keep running.

  My head is spinning like the world is orbiting around me.

  I can't die. I can't die. They won't let me.

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  Deer, squirrels, rabbits; they're not running. They all looked back.

  Just one more step. One more minute. One more chance to cough my lungs out of my aching throat.

  I scream. It bellows out as a symphony for deaf ears.

  I can see the world. I can see all these people pitying me, eyes apologizing with no actions; I am only met with words. But I can't look back at all of them.

  I stop hearing the crunching. I stop feeling the puzzle of intestines. I stop thinking of water and rest and my lungs sent to Hell.

  I'm already in Hell, but I can't look back.

  I already know what is back. I already know how I will react. I know how my knees will turn to jello and how I see their maimed corpses.

  Faster, you good for nothing brat.

  Faster, you lazy fuck.

  Faster, you failure.

  And I run faster.

  I run from my fears and my terrors and my horrible concerns. I run from anything that frightens me. I have been running for my whole life.

  I can't die. I can't die. I also can't' look back for- if I do- there will be no reason to live.

  Faster, they are gaining on you.

  One more mailbox. One more tree. One more ounce of pity.

  Just kill me now.

  My lungs are nonexistent. My legs are as good as those broken twigs. My brain is as good as those intestines: spaghettified.

  I said to kill me now. There's nothing to live for, don't you see?

  Please, one more pebble. Hell, one more corpse. I don't want to die yet. Not like this.

  I swivel my head. I can't hear their panting. I can't hear the stampede. I can't even feel the sweat dripping down my neck.

  I look back.

  There was always a void, wasn't there?

  I look down.

  I have been tramping the same corpse, running in place.

  There is a lump of flesh, bits and pieces of bone jutting out from the oversized meatball.

  The lungs are gone. They have been taken. All that is left is a pool of liquid rust.

  I gaze into a reflection of sorts.

  I was dead meat from the start.