I was running.
The trees whipped by me, I was a speeding car on a highway. My nikes pounded the ground in a rhythmic tune
I stopped.
My breath was heavy with exhaustion. I had no way of knowing how far I'd come. My mother's words echoed through my bones, like she was still shouting them through the maze of trees.
Then my chest began to tighten, as if the cold air had decided it was going to suffocate me. I was not going to cry.
Not today, at least.
I kept running.
The thorns nagged at my sweatshirt and ripped at my skin. But I didn't feel it at all, I was free. I was finally free.

I looked at the grassy clearing, decided this was good as any a place to stop, and set my black backpack down. My flare of adrenaline had subsided, so the pain was teasingly trickling back into my system with every heartbeat.
I opened a small pocket on my backpack, and the zipper broke a silence I somehow didn't know was there.
A drip of blood from a deep gash on my cheek dropped down onto my forearm. I just watched it. The small intensity of it caught the light. I had never been so afraid of something so trivial before.