The Runner
She’s running hard. She turns her head over her shoulder every now and again - not often. Whenever she does that, she has to slow down, and she cannot afford to slow down. She needs to keep running.
She cannot think of what is chasing her. That would be a waste of time, of resources. She just needs to run. There are red poppy fields on her right, buzzing with bees, and vineyards on the left. But she has no time to look at them, either. She needs to keep running.
She has no patience for how tired she is getting. She is out of shape, short of breath, lazy, useless. Had she taken better care of herself, made better choices, the run would be easier. But she didn’t, and what is chasing her is drawing closer, and it’s her fault.
She has been running for too long. Her knees ache, her feet hit the ground painfully, even holding her arms up in position is too much. Her fatigued breathe is an indictment of her wasted years. Stupid, she tells herself.
She is running hard, but she cannot run for ever. A moment will come when she trips and falls; or what is chasing her will pick up their pace. The one thing she knows with absolute certainty is how her run will end, with defeat.
She can delay that, though, for a little longer.
So she runs.