A cold hand grabs my wrist, clenching, squeezing, searching for meaning it will never find.
What have I become?
Shadows.
Everywhere.
No matter how far I run,
no matter where I go,
they will always find me.
The cold threatens to overwhelm me as I sprint, my lungs heaving.
So close.
My knees buckle beneath me.
Yet still so far.
My fingers grasp at any and every surface to try to move; to get away from those... abominations...
I can't escape.
Warm, slick fingers pull me back.
I will always be an outcast.
