I run and run until I can run no more. I run until all there is left to hear rumbling down the corridors is the pounding of my own heart, and the billowing wind buffeting up against the side of the castle. I run until all I can feel is the soreness of my own muscles, a soreness to blot out that aching pain that wells in my chest and the screams of agony ringing through my mind. I run until every thought withers and dies from my mind like a flower wilting over from the first frost of winter.
But despite my efforts, a consistent tug pulls at my chest, too great to dispel. Chittering laughter hounds my mind, the voices of concerns and worries I thought I had long since put to bed: doubt, despair. And so I find that after sprinting as fast as I can down another few corridors, it isn't long before my feet collapse beneath me, sending me spiralling into a heap on the ground.
