I was running. Not towards something. But against. Without direction. Without purpose. Without escape. I was running like one tears away an infected strip of skin, like one tries to rid oneself of a limb too sick to be saved. I was running like one tries to escape a pain that one knows comes from within. There was no destination. No promise. Not even an illusion. Just that desperate, animal, compulsive movement, which looked more like a spasm than an act of will.
I was fleeing. Not a monster. Not a screaming shadow. Not a tangible threat.
I was fleeing a whisper.
A memory.
A light.
Something that had brushed against a part of me I thought had long been dead. Something that, by its simple existence, had awakened a possibility I no longer wanted to consider. A soft crack. A cruel opening.
And I was running to close it.
With steps. With breath. With denial.
