I start to gasp for air.
He's like a faint dim outline embossed against the walls of the vacant lit alley.
He's walking; breaking no sweat as if it's some sort of a leisure jaunt. I'm certain that I'm running at a much faster pace than he is, yet everytime I glance behind my back, his fingers are almost clutching my windpipe.
I can't feel my legs anymore.
It's a typical Saturday night. Not exactly what I envisioned myself doing today.
My mental picture is slowly fading, phantom colors are taking over. Am I about to wake up from this awful dream? Finding myself sheltered by my comfy blanket where my greatest terror would be rolling too much to the right, falling off my bed and flattening my cat like a pie? Was I going to look myself in the mirror, then chuckle at how absurd this dream was? Then go to the kitchen and make me breakfast having already forgotten what I've dreamt of?
I knew I should've taken the pills. I'm hallucinating. Lately, everytime I look behind me I see this terrifying figure, starring at me with it's undersized creepy eyes, peeking at me from a distance with it's faint smile and dreadful humming.
This was supposed to be a quiet walk around the neighborhood, getting some fresh air and collecting my thoughts were my shrink's advices. How ironic. Taking his advice turned out to be the main reason I'm having this nightmare.
But since when do nightmares feel so real? Since when do nightmares give you that blazing feeling in your chest or that unbearable ache in your legs?
I've been running for far more than my physique can handle. I knew I needed some workout to perk up my shameful fitness, but I never thought I might end up scampering like I was running for my life.
Maybe I was.