Drake95

His voice rang out in the cold night, terrified and gasping. "Dammit, why are you chasing me?!" He kept running. "I didn't do anything! Please!" A splash of a foot landing in a puddle, somewhere behind him. He twisted around, nearly falling. Stumbled. A spike of cold fear. The hooded visage of his pursuer, the thumping rhythm of running shoes just feet behind him. Desperate, he grabbed a dumpster, shoved it over in a pathetic attempt to slow down his pursuer. Weak, futile hope blossomed in his chest, then faded as the footsteps returned, louder now. "What do you want from me?!" But he did know what the pursuer wanted from him. His lif

His feet dragged along the ground, barely lifting off at all. It would probably wear out his new sneakers, he knew, but somehow he didn't really care. With a hand occasionally brushing sweat from his forehead, he trudged down the sidewalk, making his slow way home from school. The afternoon sun was blazing overhead, but trees lining the path provided shelter from the heat. He knew the route home by heart. Left turn here, straight until the crossing, then right turn again. So on and so forth. The same route he took home every single day. He hated that route. Or, more precisely, what it represented to him. Because he held, deep within his hea