The runner

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. He kept running. As his leg pushed through the air, his mind could wander. Right foot. Why did I want to do this? Left foot. It was something about children. Right foot. The orphanage, that was it. Left foot. Raising money for charity.

He cursed himself for being so noble. He could have just donated some money, but instead he had promised to run for the cause. No time to regret his decision now. His legs carried him closer to the runner in front of him. He would do his best, at the very least.

Out of my way. Left, right, left, right and beyond the opponent. A triumphant thought. He soared past, his legs disregarding gravity with each bound. He defied the earth that wanted to stop him.

He could hear the blood pumping inside his head. He felt the rhythm of the running. It was unstoppable, inevitable and he had to follow. Not too fast. Need to save energy for the end. The final dash. It’s getting closer.

Around the corner. A host of runners ahead, chaotic and disjointed. He could not be stopped by this horde. Left, right, left. Gigantic strides, crossing continents with each step. He passed over the mountains, pathetic obstacles in his way. He reached the green plains beyond. The horde left bumbling behind him.

He must be close now. The hill was there. They had been told about the hill. Not told. Warned. The incline defeated many runners, made them give up. It would not do so to him. For on the hill was the shining city, with the finishing line and the victory. The world would notice his triumph.

Up the hill now. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot, left hitting right... He stumbled, flailing his arms as if he was trying to lash out at the thing responsible. But in vain. The ground punished him for his mistake, tearing at his legs and arms. A primitive howl emitted from his lips. No words could describe this anguish.

Fickle fate plucked the victory from under his feet. He could no longer defy gravity and taunt the ground. It had taken its revenge, showing what it could do, even to giants.

He groaned as he righted himself. The rhythm was gone, replaced by the pounding of the horde below him. Left foot. A pause as the pain swept through him like waves on the beach. Right foot. The pain retreated as he lifted up his leg, only for it to return in greater force as the foot came crashing down, the cuts tugging at his skin.

The orphanage. That kept him steady. He felt the rhythm again. Fainter, but still there. A voice of calm, telling him to keep going. The noise of the horde faded away again. The leader of the pack lay up ahead. The ground had had its trick, but that would not stop him for gaining his olive crown. Left foot. He ignored the pain. Right foot. The leader had heard him. Had quickened his pace. But that could not save him. Would not stop the worn, bleeding figure from pounding by. It was inevitable.

Only the air itself was now his enemy, keeping him back. But he needed that. Needed oxygen, energy. He could see the city and the line. It was a border that needed to be crossed, and the enemy would surrender. He would win.

He crossed the line. No exaltation. Just relief. It was over now. The orphanage. Good for them. He closed his eyes. His ragged breaths kept to the rhythm. Gradually it slowed and faded. The olives crowned his head.