Second-Person Version
You crouch behind fallen timber, faced pressed against the cold bark. The moon casts faint illumination, the only light. Your breath comes raggedly. The last sprint was hard. Fortunately, they seem to have lost you. Or did they?
You stretch weary hamstrings while keeping your body low. With a groan, you arch slowly and rise to a stand. Running feels natural now. It feels as if you’ve run every day of your life. Legs hungry for ground, you move forward, only stumbling slightly. You can’t afford to trip.
Wind tears at your face, yet no tears spring forth. You ran out of tears hours ago. Hope is one of few things you haven’t depleted. Strength can be borrowed. It can be bought for a price. Eventually the total adds up to your life. It makes a better death anyway. The fate of weakness, of stopping for longer than a moment, is worse than a cool, moist grave.
Safety feels near. You spot a wall, the wall of a city. Mouth feeling coarse, you vomit, last strips of energy harnessed to break into a dead sprint that rattles your whole being. A dead sprint to salvage life. How queer.
A man stands at the gate, stoic, bland. He glances at you with steely eyes. You smile madly. What? Pain erupts from your back as you collapse, clawing at the yellow grass in front of you to try to continue. The man frowns. “Sorry,” he utters, then rushes within the walls.
So close, yet so far away. There seems no point in screaming. You let out a cracking moan nonetheless. Your lips contort into a smile. The price, you must pay the price. Even a scream has a cost now. The toll is only half-pence perhaps, but you spent your last some time ago. Black, white, you are weightless. You see light, blessed light, with only a scar of darkness. Light? It seems that a bill has saved your soul.
Third-Person Version
Ivan crouches behind fallen timber, face pressed against the cold bark. The moon casts faint illumination, the only light. His breath comes raggedly. The last sprint was hard. I think I lost them.
He stretches his weary hamstrings while keeping his body low. With a groan, he arches slowly and rises to a stand. Running feels natural now. It feels as if he’s run every day of his life. Legs hungry for ground, he moves forward, only stumbling slightly. I can’t afford to trip.
Wind tears at his face, yet no tears spring forth. He ran out of tears hours ago. Hope is one of few things yet to be depleted. Strength can be borrowed. It can be bought for a price. The fate of weakness, of stopping for longer than a moment, is worse than a cool, moist grave. They’ll steal it.
Safety feels near. Ivan spots a wall, the wall of a city. Mouth feeling coarse, he vomits. The last shred of remaining energy is harnessed to break into a dead sprint that rattles his whole being. A dead sprint to salvage life. How queer.
A man stands at the gate, stoic. He glances at him with steely eyes. Ivan smiles madly, then frowns. What? Pain erupts from his back as he collapses, clawing at the yellow grass in front of him to try to continue. The man frowns. “Sorry,” he utters, then rushes within the walls. I suppose I shouldn’t blame him.
The bushes directly behind Ivan rustle. A sound from his nightmares comes to his ears. I’m not going to make it. So close, yet so far away.
He lets out a cracking moan. Pain racks him. The price, I must pay the price. A weak smile forms on his face. The toll is meager, yet more than he has left. All turns black, then white. He sees light, blessed light, with only a scar of darkness. I’m weightless.
It seems that struggling isn’t futile after all. A bill saved my soul.
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