Crimson. The only color he could see, the only color he could feel, he could feel it all over his hands, and up his arms, feel it soaking through his clothes, settling onto his skin, warm and sticky. Was it his or was it someone else’s? Where had it come from, and why was he covered in it? Running, still running, crying, sobbing, and aching. His legs begged him to stop, the muscles screaming, and gasping. He was almost there, almost into the woods and away from everyone, away from the crimson and away from the screams.
Finally, the woods looming ahead of him, almost welcoming him into their cold, snowy, dark and safe embrace. Promising to keep him away from those he would hurt, away from anyone he could touch; promising to hold him back from whatever monster he had become. Leaping, bounding, dodging, and running through the branches, cutting his bare arms and face, causing more crimson.
He heard the shouting and screaming. He saw small spots of light, rushing toward him; dogs barking daring him to move farther into the dark shelter of the woods, to give them more of a challenge to find him. Defeated, he collapsed into the snow, letting the pain in his muscles take over, giving over to the pain and letting the crimson take him, laying there waiting for them to find him and take him away. Away to his death, or to be tortured, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, it had to be better than the running. Better than the Crimson.
