The Run

She was turning into Forrest Gump, it was worrying. Not least because Tom Hanks freaked her out, she strongly suspected he was secretly a psychopath. He had that look about him, for all the saccharine emoting he’d probably still kill a man for cutting in front of him in a queue. That wasn’t the main cause of concern though, becoming Tom Hanks. No, it was the fact that she’d been going for nine hours now. Running randomly through the city like a hyperactive puppy escaping a neutering vet. All she’d meant to do was have a quick jog.

If she stopped now her body would finally have it’s chance to take revenge on her. That’d be painful enough but even the prospect of broken muscles and bloody blisters wasn’t the real issue. That was in the fact that she couldn’t stop, at all. It had been all she’d thought about for the last hour. Giving up and getting the bus home, a heavenly prospect and one she wasn’t sure what sin she’d committed to be denied. Her legs had become autonomous pistons, pumping on endlessly with absolutely no interest in her views on the matter. Or perhaps they weren’t the problem, perhaps her mind was the one fuelling this impromptu marathon. A part of it that she couldn’t see through the exhaustion and the all consuming forward drive.

Either way she’d soon reach the city limits. Then what? Kent? The sea? Would she start swimming next or pass out before it went that far?

As she saw the lights of the M25 up ahead, London’s tarmac boundary line, she realised she might have to find out the hard way. And to be honest, the answers didn’t much matter.

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