She had to run.
She ran, lungs burning, heart pounding, the screams of the world around her filling not just her head, but her ears.
She ran, and every time she looked down, she was startled to not see a gaping hole in her chest, blood spattered all over. The wound there felt physical. It felt like it ought to be a fluttering-edged shrapnel-filled gory emptiness, a wound from which there was no salvation. But there was just skin and shirt and faint scars.
She ran and kept running, stumbling, skinning hands and knees, then back up, booted feet stomping over rubble and fire.
She ran because at some point, that feeling would catch up, and spindle her, even moreso.
She ran because then her heart would simply come undone.
She ran or it would tear itself right out of her chest.
She ran with a violence to match that breaking.
She ran because she knew she was alone.
She ran. She had to run.
A poem or a story, I don’t know which. Doesn’t matter either. It’s somewhere between, and that’s a good place.
I don’t know either.
That was intense. As I read it, I felt like she might be chased by something or someone. Or, maybe she’s running from herself.
Thank you — I’m glad to see it came through. Hard to figure out if it’s too subtle, or ham-fisted.