Roselyn Olympus

I'd never have believed that it happened if it hadn't happened to me.

I breathed heavily, then fast, faster and faster until I could almost surely feel my brain beginning to swell. My heart pounded erratically, and I felt sick with the aching pain in my abdomen. I ran all the harder as I heard a guttural, spitting, shrieking noise behind me. I didn't know if I could outrun the beast—that was all I could call him, for I had no inkling of what he was, only that he was male—but running, just moving away from him, seemed instinctual, as though it was all I could do, which was most likely true. I wound through the trees, the dull colors whirling past, blending together, as I set my eyes on the miniscule light ahead, a safe haven in a forest of darkness. Branches scraped and cut my arms and face, weeds sinisterly attempted to wrap around my ankles, snapping as I pulled harder forward. Running, breathing, pain, aching pain. It was all I could do to push on, as my sides split, and my legs ached, and my arms bled, and my head swirled. I ran, faster than I knew I could, running, terrified. I did not think—my brain could not process normally. I focused solely on the light ahead of me, running, sprinting. When I reached it, finally, I heaved my aching body onto the ground and lay, gasping for air. I saw no signs of the beast as my eyes darted around—perhaps I've outrun him, I thought, trembling. After a while like this, I started to calm down. And, for the first time that night, I felt safe. Protected. Secure. I was safe in this patch of grass, laying here in the moonlight. Nothing else can go wrong, I told myself. Well, I've been mistaken before.