This is not about me.

She runs. She runs and runs as the walls creep closer towards her. Her calves squeeze excruciatingly but she cannot stop. The walls are never ending, they twist and turn in a colossal labyrinth that wraps around her like chaos. She can feel her heartbeat in her feet now, and her lungs are on the brink of collapse. She heaves massive gasps of air and sputters a little. She is exhausted, so so tired, but she cannot stop, at least not now. She knows not of love or hate or dread or excitement, only knew the exhaustion that never goes away. Her ribs feel white hot now, as if a coil of wire was wrapped around them and heated instantaneously, they burned and throbbed and screamed, and then the pain lulled. Her feet are still in motion, one ahead of the other at all times, but the silent whisper of footsteps is the only thing she feels at home with. There is no more pain, neither was there anger, in fact, all she felt was the grey, bland matter at the back of her throat. She footsteps slow to a halt. The walls are still coming.