You Can't Run Anymore

• Sarah Northey, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2015

My eyes open wide and in my attempt to sit up, I get thrown back by the straps covering my body. Where am I? Why am I here? What’s happening? So many of these questions flood through my head. I struggle. My arms pulling at the ties that hold them down, my body thrashing against the bed, I kick my legs in an attempt to break them free of the hold but once again fail. I groan at the pain I can feel in my head. It feels like thousands of pins and needles trying to escape from inside me. I move my head to look beside me and find myself staring directly at another person, another human life form. He just lay there, staring back at me. Strapped down to the bed he lay upon, he reminds me of death. Legs, arms, torso; all covered in straps preventing him from moving, just like myself.
His eyes divert to something that is behind me. The death like look in his eyes changes to pure hatred. I hear what sounds like a growl escape from his mouth as I turn my head in an attempt to see what he sees. I find myself staring at the most beautiful looking lady, who seems no older than 21. She is gorgeous. Long flowing, blonde hair that reaches half way down her back. A beautiful white dress that drapes to the floor and just covers her feet. Everything seems perfect on her, even her light blue eyes that look unnatural. She walks over to the man who is laying just metres away from me. This beautiful lady who presents herself in front of me and this other man seems so peaceful and calm; till the knife is drawn. I watch her lean right in so she’s just inches away from the other man’s face.
The man growls again. “This is what you deserve.” She runs the blunt edge along the man’s face ever so gently. Even her sweet voice sounds amazing, but is ruined by the object she holds. “You bought this upon yourself!” the man screams and the blood drips from the knife to the floor. His neck was cut open and his head rolls to look at me and I can’t help but look into his now dead eyes. “You’re next,” the lady says, looking directly at me; licking the blood from the knife. I hold the screams in. What had the man done? What was going to happen to me? Why am I here? The questions once again flood my mind and cloud any other thoughts. She leans over the bed and stops when her face is inches from mine. Her eyes are no longer that amazing light blue. Rather, they are as black as the blackest night. Leaning in ever so slightly, she whispers next to my ear, “You can’t run anymore, Miss Sarah Jane.” Everything goes black and I feel the life slip away from my body.