You Can't Run From Guilt

• Callum Farquhar, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2016

‘Got to... keep... going...’ he puffed as he scrambled as fast as he could through the forest. Khalil had been on the run from the cops for what had seemed five hours now. He pushed through the pain in his legs and grumbles in his stomach and he turned a corner behind a big gum tree. He had a quick breather and swallowed down some saliva. Mistake. His tongue went dry and a big lump built up in his throat, then, like a demolition site, it came crumbling down as he cried. He couldn’t take it much longer. He hadn’t meant to be a murderer. He was just having a nice party with his friends, until about one a.m.
See, one of his mates was constantly bugging him. Like all the time. Khalil ignored the comments at first, but one stirred him up so bad, he, well... it wouldn’t be appropriate to say. ‘Stupid anger management,’ he muttered to himself. He kept running, thinking about how he’d ruined his life forever. He was only seventeen! His blue eyes fell to grey throughout the few hours he’d been on the run. He knew he’d be caught soon enough, but he just had to keep going. He didn’t want to give in. He felt guilt in his chest and his body shook. He felt aching pain in his muscles and his head spun.
‘Khalil means friend, lover,’ sobbed the criminal. ‘Guess my parents mucked it up.’
The mud squelched under the black Vans shoes and Khalil’s head hung low under the grey Nike hoodie. His clothes were soaking from the winter rain and his tears. His running had turned into a walk and now into a stumble. He knew he had done wrong, but he didn’t want to admit it. But the guilt was so bad, the pain was so strong and the cops were so close. Taking three last heavy breaths, Khalil screamed, and his voice quaked. He looked down at a bright light on the ground, and then fell, blacking out.
You don’t remember anything once you’ve blacked out. He was unconscious for what seemed like ages, but throughout that time, he thought about all his regrets. Especially the ones he had just made. He opened his eyes, seeing a blinding light of police cars’ headlights.
The police had caught him.
Khalil, even though he had resisted all this time, he realized now he had to give up. He was caught fair and square.
He felt all that extra guilt again and gloomily hung his grey hoodie over his head as they entered the city, with the press taking photographs any chance they could get.
He wasn’t bad, Khalil. Anyone who knew him knew that. But it was hard to prove, now that he was a teenage criminal getting ready for jail for murder.
Khalil rubbed his now grey eyes and slouched down. He was in masses of trouble.