The Gift

by Louise Jensen

Dampness fills my lungs and as I draw a sharp breath nausea crashes over me in sickening waves. My energy is fading fast. My trainers slap against the concrete and I don’t think I can hear footsteps behind me any more, but it’s hard to tell over the howling wind. I steal a glance over my shoulder but my feet stray onto soft earth and I lose my footing and stumble,

throat. Don’t make a sound. I’m scared. So scared. I lie on my stomach. Still. Silent. Waiting. My palms are stinging. Cheek throbbing. Rotting leaves pervade my nostrils. My stomach roils as I slowly inch forward, digging my elbows into the wet soil for traction. Left. Right. Left. Right. I’m in the undergrowth now. Thorns pierce my skin and catch on my clothes but I stay low, surrounded

this I tell myself, but it’s a lie. I know I can’t keep going for much longer. The clouds roll across the sky again and the blackness is crushing. I momentarily slow, conscious I can’t see where I’m putting my feet. The ground is full of potholes and I can’t risk spraining my ankle, or worse. What would I do then? How could I get away? The wind gusts and the clouds