I was running. Running, running, running. I was running for no reason at all, and for every reason in the world. The wind that put its chilling fingers through my hair was mine. I made it; with every hurried step I made my own wind. It felt incredible. It felt horrible.

I felt like I was leaving the world behind. Every ache in my feet, every tight pain in my chest was just another sign that I was succeeding. But the world didn’t want it that way. The world was hard and dark as the pavement bellow me. The roads themselves guided me, took control over me. Whether I liked it or not, I was still a part of this, every step I took was proof of that.

But I didn’t have to believe it. I could keep running and running and running. I didn’t have to be running away from anything, it didn’t have to be that way. But it was that way, and I knew it too. And then again, it wasn’t.

No, I wasn’t running away from something but someone. Who? Do you think I know? Oh, of course I know. I know it because it was the reason I started running. I know it because every second of my life I can feel it pulsing, screaming, clawing, tearing, trying to get out.

Him?

‘Him?’ you ask? That elusive mystery man I so often write of, that I so eloquently devote my talent to? No, not him, never him. If it were him I was running for it would be toward, not away. No, it is not him for whom I run, it is…for me. Whom else would I run for? Whom else would I run from? No one but myself. All the faults, of the world, of my home, of my family, of my friends, they are all me. And I them.

Truth be told I know there is something inside me which I hate, that I want to run away from, that I need to get rid of, need to let out. But I know, letting it out means letting the world see it, and we can’t have that, can we? Everyone has that little spec, that thing about themselves that they keep hidden away. Playboy and Cosmo, fanfictions and fetishes, message boards and artwork, our outlet for those specs. It is not often enough, but it is often all we have.

Then it makes me wonder, why, if this is true, does no one else run? Why do I not see the rest of my friends, my family, my neighborhood, my town, why are they not running with me? Why do they not break down in the middle of English class? Why do they not tear apart innocent newspapers? Why do they not sob and break things in inopportune moments? Why do they not run?

Am I the one? Am I the one who is wrong? Do I need to take medication? Do I need to sit on a leather couch and talk about my sensitivity? Do I need to confront my mother on my weight issues, and my father on my commitment issues? Should I have stayed in school? Should I go to my tutoring sessions? Should I control myself better?

Is it really my fault?

It is my fault I’m a little depressed because my grandmother died? Is it my fault the people make fun of me? Is it my fault my mother thinks I’m fat, or that my dad left us before I was born? Is it my fault that public school is a living hell? Is it my fault that I’m so messed up?

How the hell should I know?!?

I feel like crying, but I can’t. I feel like if one tear comes out of my body it will burn like liquid fire. It fells like the only way to get this feeling out of my chest would be to rip out my heart.

I stop, and crouch down, hands on my knees, desperately trying to keep the top half of my body from falling over. I can hear and feel each breath, dry and like ice, pulling it’s self in and out of my body. I know I am breathing, but I don’t feel like I am. I’m not getting what I need in the breaths, and the horrible feeling in my gut is hastily returning.

I shouldn’t stop, I know. I need to get in shape, I need to loose a few pounds, but I just don’t care anymore. It’s getting dark and I wonder if I should turn back, if I should run home. No, that’s the last place I want to be when I feel like this. When I feel like the world is coming to an end, and no body knows it but me. Or maybe it’s only my world that’s coming to an end. Ha. I should be so lucky.

No, my world keeps going, spinning on it’s crooked axis, taunting, tempting me to just reach out and stop it. Make the mountains fall down, and the oceans swell over entire continents. It wants me to, I know it does, but I won’t give in so easily.

Hn, I’m too much of a coward for that anyway.

I look up and find that I’m at the library. I used to come her a lot before…before it all started. Before I stopped being who I was then and became who I am now. I don’t like the me now, and you know, I don’t think she likes me either. She makes my life miserable on purpose, just to spite me. But she brings herself down as well. Sweet revenge!

That’s right, if I have to suffer, than all of me has to suffer. If my heart breaks, then why should my body break as well? Why can’t I gain a few pounds? Why can’t I stop studying, and let my brain turn into mush like all the rest of me?

That is when the tears start. Just one or two. I never cry much, just enough the wet my eyelashes, and make me feel like that’s all I need. But I need so much more.

The writing helps, but not enough, not nearly enough. I say I’ll write and I’ll get money, and then I’ll be happy. I won’t. I say I’ll let out my emotions, and it’ll make me fell better. It doesn’t.

I want to be held, to be comforted. i don’t want to be fixed, the way my mother thinks I can be. I don’t want to be trained like my friends seem to think I need to be. I don’t need sympathy. I don’t need pity. And even love, I’ve found, is not enough. So what is it that I need?

I’m not quite sure.

Will I find it in the things that others seem to find comfort in? In sex? In religion? In violence? In meditation? Perhaps in soap operas or romance novels? No, no, I doubt it. I doubt I will ever find it.

So then, what do I have to live for?

Sometimes, I hardly care. In fact, sometimes I don’t care at all. I don’t think I would ever actually do anything to kill myself. Make myself sick, maybe. Put myself in a coma, perhaps, but kill? No, like I said, I’m not nearly brave enough for that.

I run home anyway. I don’t want to be there, but I don’t exactly want to be anywhere else either. I’m sick of retreating into my mind. I’m starting to feel trapped there, like I have no where else to go. I hate that feeling. I don’t like being trapped.

When I get home, I ignore my mother and she ignores me. I know she’s punishing me. That’s the way she does it, she ignores me until I can hear her anger in the silence. I try to do that too. I try to let her hear my sorrow in my own silence. I don’t think she hears.

She is doing the dishes. I figure that is probably why she is so mad. Here I am, coming home late, and I haven’t even done the dishes. She makes a big show of scrubbing my favorite glass like it is covered in tar. She rinses it off and puts it into the rack with a clink.

I close the door to my room, careful to not make a sound, afraid that breaking the silence will cause world war three. I feel like cussing for no reason at all, and do, burying my head in my pillow to muffle the sound. My mother doesn’t even know I know half the words I say, and that makes a few of the tears come back. Only one or two, I never cry much.

I left my head from the thin fabric of the pillow case and notice the rancid smell that my room is giving off. My cat has thrown up somewhere, and I haven’t washed any clothes in a month or so. But why does it matter? I’ll buy some aerosol tomorrow if I can scrounge something more than pennies from my money jar.

Life sucks.

And it doesn’t even taste good.