Death

Your head is a spinning top.
Blindly running.
Running.
Running.
Unsurpassable wall of relentless rain bullets peppering your fragile body.
There is no escape for a wicked, twisted soul.
You'll never make it, selfish little girl.
Stunted feet won't be enough to carry you away this time.
He'll catch you.
He's gaining.
Already he smells you.
Smells the fear, tearing at your tortured mind.
Your screams of anguish, delectable.
Your blood, a more than satisfactory reward for his efforts.