Run.

I am running. Every time, that much is always the same. Sometimes I can see where I'm going, or where I am, or once even where I've been. And I always know why I'm running. It's to get away, to escape to flee. Sometimes, I think I'm being chased; but I can't always tell what's behind me. A few times I've wondered if I'm just surrounded by the thing I'm running from. Or maybe I'm running straight into it. Either way, it doesn't really matter, because it somehow manages to get me in the end.

But then sometimes when I'm running, it's different. I see nothing; not in front of me, not behind me, not what I pass or what I'm running on. And I don't think, like I do when I can see. The only thing my brain is capable of then is broadcasting a continuous string of runrunrunrunrun to my over-taxed body. This is when it almost becomes real, all this running, this escaping and fleeing. And this thing chasing me; I can feel it steaming down my neck. Except that when I run like this, I suddenly end up safe, in my own bed, with you lying beside me.

This time, I will not wake up. I know this; it changes nothing. I see nothing, I feel everything. Rain or sweat drips down my face, itching a path by my nose. I almost spend the energy to scratch. I run faster, blind as death at birth. The carrion breath still reeks down my neck, caressing my shoulder like a pedophilic rapist. I run. Otherwise I will fall and be overtaken. This cannot happen. I run faster.