Written on Monday, March 10, 2014.
Warm, dewy dirt sticks itself to your bare feet as you race through the trees and underbrush, desperate to escape the doom that looms over your head if you hesitate for a mere second. Your heart races, your lungs pump, your brain is forced to make fraction-of-a-second decisions as fallen logs and stinging nettles appear in front of you. Your legs have become numb from leaping over these obstacles, and your sweaty, blistered feet yearn for rest. Alas, you cannot stop, even for one second. Your mind and ears are filled with the beating of six feet on the soft ground; two are your own, of course. Four feet pound behind you, prancing effortlessly over that with which you have difficulty. If you could turn your head just a bit, for just a moment, you would see the swift movement of black and orange, sprinting gracefully through your peripheral vision with seemingly unending endurance. Ripped, reddened fabric clings hopefully to your weakening body, but it only slows you down. You can hear the panting of the beast that chases you, merely a few paces behind. Your legs complain of the strenuous effort required to keep going, and finally give way. Your knees buckle. Dirt finds its way into all your wounds. A sudden stinging fills your whole body, and as you open your eyes, all you can see is red.