Hello! So this is just a short one shot from Prentiss point of view. Got the idea in my head and had to get it out. Not sure if it's any good but oh well! Let me know what you think, been away from the writing game for a while but trying to get back into it. Reviews are more than welcome! Thanks for reading. :)
I always loved running... it was something you could do by yourself, and under your own power. You could go in any direction, fast or slow as you wanted, fighting the wind if you felt like it, seeking out new sights just on the strength of your feet and the courage of your lungs. - Jesse Owens
Adrenaline coursed through her veins like fire seeking gasoline. Her feet pounded the pavement below her; each step echoing through her body. The wind rushed past her, blowing cold against her pale cheeks. Her heart beat faster with each stride but her breathing was calm and even. She pushed her body to go farther; to reach; to run to whatever destination she was seeking. Or to further her from whatever hell it was she was running from.
Whatever it was, she just ran. She didn't think about anything. Her mind was a clear slate of nothingness. The only thing she needed to care about was pushing fresh, cool air into her lungs. She licked her lips, feeling them begin to crack in the cold winter air, but in a second they were dry once again. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered at that moment. The moment when you feel like you're gliding against the pavement; when your eyes look straight ahead with no fear of any obstacles in your path. And all you do is run. Plain and simple.
And yet it was more than that. It was a complicated web, intricately weaved. It was a release. A way to let go of every worry and troublesome thought. The only thing was she knew that when she stopped, it would all come crashing back into her at full force. The high of not caring would not last long. It was only a short term fix, but she basked in the relief for as long as she could.
She ran when she couldn't cope any longer. When nightmares plagued her dreams and threatened to fade into reality. She ran not only to get away, but to lose herself. To just, for one fading second, not be who she was. It didn't matter who she became. And she honestly did not care.
She ran to forget; to remember. She ran to live; to feel the blood coursing through her veins with each rush of wind against her face. You go through so much of life living on auto pilot that you slowly begin to lose part of who you are. But when she ran, she wasn't anybody. She was just another person trying to get through the day. And from her experience, making it out partially whole was just an added bonus.
You can't get through all of life's worries and woes without losing bits of yourself. And part of her feared she had already lost to much; so much that she would never fully recover. But when she ran, none of that mattered. She was complete for a long as her body pushed against air; for as long feet moved swiftly below her; for as long as she ran.
She could feel the high slowly begin to fade; knowing that soon she would have to once again face the cold, hard, truthful reality that was her everyday life. She closed her eyes, running blind for a moment. letting the slight fear of not seeing where she was going prolong the feeling of flying for just a little longer, even though she knew every turn and crack in the pavement below her.
Gulping in another breathe of air, she opened her eyes and slowed to a stop. And although she stood still her heart still raced within her, as if it too longed to be running again. As if with each pounding beat it was telling her to run again; to run fast, to run hard, and to run free.
But as the stillness around her became more evident, slowly her heart beat slowed back to normal. And the urge of flight slowly faded into the back of her mind. It was easy enough to take another breathe and start running again, but if she did that all the time than something would be lost in it. It would no longer be something sacred and precious; a time where she could be free.
And so she made her way home, thoughts of the coming day already rushing through her mind. And the feeling of being nothing, of being free, already fading into the corners of her mind. Not to be touched or thought about until her feet once again hit the concrete, until adrenaline coursed through her burning veins, until she ran once again.
All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live. - Mark Twain