Running endlessly. Branches whipped at her skin and left little cuts on her cheeks, reminding her of her mother, the way her mom used to paint the red streaks on the faces of the perverted people in the pages of her notebook.
A root snagged her arched, bare foot. Falling, her hands were outstretched and ready to catch her slim body when she hit rock bottom. Lying face first on the ground she looked up and
could barely make out the blurry outline of a stream up ahead.
She moved, crawling like a soldier fighting in some far off war, for she didn’t have the strength to pick herself up.
She dipped her hand in with trepidation and felt the cool liquid run through her fingers, the frigid water biting her palms. She felt the push of the ripples against her and gazed into the brook. Her reflection became visible. She felt like she did when she used to look into the
fun house mirror as a child. It took her face and blended and meshed it in ways
that made her look inhuman, unlike herself.
As she gazed upon her twisted reflection she wondered, who was she really running from?