The rush of the wind.

The blaring of an alarm.

Whipping at his face, swirling pale hair in his face as he sprinted down the street. His arms spread wide, bright smile plastered on his lips, letting himself feel the thrill of running full speed downhill.

Time to wake up. The alarm is going off. He slams his hand onto the button, silencing the deafening sound. He doesn't want to move, wants to stay in the warmth of his blankets. He groans into his pillow, rolling onto his back—pale steel blue eyes blink open, examining the high ceiling. Time to face it.

The end of the hill is approaching. The pathway of trees is coming to an end. He wants it to continue on, he wants to keep running. To continue feeling the rush, the freedom of it. But all good things must come to an end.

Just a bit longer, he thinks.

Stop right before the curb. So he keeps running, full speed—no stopping, no slowing. Keeps running, keeps feeling the wind, the rush. And then he meets the edge of the curb.

He goes to stop, but he can't. Too much momentum. He trips into the street.

He rips the blankets from his figure, sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He squints around his room, hands tugging at the edge of his too-large shirt absentmindedly. Where's that blasted chair?

He spots it, beside his bed as it should be.

He reached over, grabbing onto one of the metal arms and tugging it over. The brakes are on, it makes it difficult, the rubber makes an uncomfortable sound against the wood. He grimaces, scooting his ass towards the end of the bed. He moves his hands from the chair to his legs, tugging them to follow with the rest of him, letting them fall off the edge of the bed.

A pain, every morning—but he'll deal.

He pushes himself off of the bed, practically flopping into his chair with a grunt. He leans to the side, tugging the brake off of one wheel, repeats it with the second.

Morning routine, nothing out of the ordinary.

His hands go to the wheels, he rolls himself toward the door. It's open, he forgot to close it last night. Or maybe the dog pushed it open and left before he woke up. Both are possible. He disregards it, rolls out the room and down the hall.

His room used to be on the second floor of the house. Keyword "used to". He couldn't get up there anymore—without a lot of effort, at least. Too much effort, he never went up there.

He takes a moment to pause, scratch his head and yawn. His white hair is unruly and he combs it down with his fingers. Combs it over his left eye, over the large scar that went down the entire side of his face. Too big to hide it, too big to forget it. Just another reminder of his mistake.

As if the price of his legs wasn't reminder enough.

R/N: It's been quite some time since I've posted anything and I apologize for that. It seems me "muse" has left me. I've been attempting to complete Euthanasia—but I will have to put that under hiatus until a later date. I will be updating that with more information on the subject.

But this story has nothing to do with Euthanasia. This is a new idea, Vitium. The idea kind of kicked me in the face while I was listening to "Sneakers" by the Yoo Do Hyun Band. I have no idea where, exactly, I want this to go. So I'm really making everything up as I ago as opposed to when I worked on Euthanasia and Stages.

I hope you'll all enjoy this as much as you enjoyed my others.

`Vincent.