Rage.
It consumed him.
It coursed through his veins like a drug, forcing him onwards.
A force intangible yet unrelenting.
Through the trees and bushes he ran, thorns and briers ripping at his skin.
The cool night air whipped through him, but couldn’t cool the burning pain.
This was not the pain of the flesh wounds, they were insignificant, this was immense; the fire inside him, driving him insane, keeping him in a state of perpetual agony. To him this torture would never end, but would have to be released somehow, or at least passed on to someone else. At this point only he mattered. There was only him and the pain. Any soul in his way would face naught but paroxysms of rage.
He clumsily sprinted on, not yet knowing where each foot should land, or when.
A hunger was growing inside him which could not be ignored.
It started to rain but he kept running, the droplets steaming off his burning back, he kept running, he didn’t know where or why, but he kept running.
2007-09-08
06:40:18
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12 answers
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asked by
Anonymous