Running. No, chasing, that's what was happening. I was being chased, and not a fun chase. At the end of this chase I'd be dead.
My feet were pounding on the asphalt and I could feel a blister forming on my right foot, but I couldn't stop; not if I wanted to live.
But eventually they would catch up, and I would find myself dead, and with no one to mourn my murder. My sides were heaving and I felt like I was just about to vomit up my own stomach, but I had to press on.
Goodbye, I thought as I ran. I shook my head, missing the hair that used to fall into my face, but there no longer was hair on my scalp. For they had shaved my head, and with my hair my dignity followed. Anyway, I couldn't say goodbye, there was no one to say it to.
I couldn't run forever, and my point was proven when they chased me into a warehouse.
I glanced around wildly but there was no escape route to be seen. No place to run, and no place to hide. When I looked back to him and his cronies a gun stared me in the face. But before his finger could flex over the trigger, I heard a voice shout, "This is the police, come out with your hands up."