Young Writers Society

Aaron fell to the ground, army-crawling through the thick underbrush. Her heart pounded in her ears no need for the comma as her breath came out in swift puffs of white. The night air was cold, damp, and filled with the overwhelming stench of blood, leaving Aaron in a cold sweat as she pulled herself away. She had to get away. She had to get the book away. In a death grip in her right hand was the old, small, leather bound brown book. It was her only chance, her only hope. Without it they’d have gotten her by now.

The ground was wet from last night’s rain. Aaron did her best to move quickly, but trying to maneuver through the thick plants on her stomach made her tired. She was so tired. She hadn’t slept in days. Her muscles felt like melted marshmallows, throbbing with a burning ache with every move she made. It was dark, nearly silent, the only sound in the lonely woods was her hammering heart and ragged breath, and the faintest crunch of heavy boots. Her leg hurt. It hurt so much. The wound was bleeding real badly; it filled the air with the scent of her blood. It made her want to throw up.

Keep moving, she told herself when she so wanted to stop. Keep moving or die like the rest of them. Don’t let their lives be for nothing. Aaron pulled herself farther, but she hurt, she was tired, and cold. It was so dark, so peaceful. She wanted to stop, she wanted to sleep. But it wasn’t peaceful. The night was full of death. Her friends were dead. He was coming after her, him and his assassins. They wanted the book. They would kill her for it. No… they would make her suffer. They’d make her suffer for running, for taking the book. They’d make her suffer, and then she would die alone. She knew them; they would make her die alone. They would make her wait for death until she begged for it.

With renewed fear Aaron started forward, getting to her knees, struggling to regain her balance, to get to her feat, to run faster. She couldn’t. Her leg, it hurt too much. It hurt so much. The pain surged through her leg, the intensity of it shocked her. Rolling to her back, she struggled not to cry out, to stay silent. She took comfort in feeling the almost painful sting of her swords scabbard under her, and clutched the book to her chest, trying to keep her grip gentle. It was a weak book; she didn’t want to rip it. There was no point in saving it if it could no longer be read.

When the pain finally settled, when it became the bearable throbbing ache it had been before, she turned back onto her stomach. With the book in her right hand she army crawled through the thick underbrush. Her heart pounding in her ears as her breath came out in puffs of white. The night air was cold, and damp, and filled with the overwhelming stench of her blood.