Hello, wonderful people who are reading this. I was pulling a 2:00 bedtime when I wrote this and I like the idea so I'm gonna make a series out of it. Yay for late-night writing! This is set in the March of 1964 in the Soviet Union. This was inspired by all the amazing athletes who defected from Communist countries. What they did was unspeakably brave and this story is dedicated to them. So, without further ado, here is chapter one of Running.

Disclaimer: Even though they aren't here, don't own the Beatles.

I'm running. My lungs are on fire. My legs are being torn to ribbons on the thorns and barbed wire scattered on the ground. The pack I wear on my back contains my birth certificate, a change of clothes, some bread and enough money to buy passage to England. Dogs bark and I know they are close.

"Стоп!" I hear the men yell. I pick up my speed. If they catch me, I'm dead. Perhaps I should explain who I am and why these people want me to remain in the Soviet Union so much.

My name is Ekaterina Petrov. I was born in Leningrad on February 17th, 1945. I'm an olympian gymnast. In the 1960 games in Tokyo, I won gold in floor practice, balance beam and all-around for both my team and individually. I also received silver in uneven bars.

When I was five years old, I was singled out for my natural flexibility. Torn from my parents, I was placed in a special school. There, I had almost no formal education. I was taught English and gymnastics. Nothing else. One day, when I six, I found the library. It became my safe-haven. After a few months of struggle, I taught myself to read. And those books did something the government feared. They opened my mind. For the first time, I could think for myself.

My instructor, Alexei Nemtsov, soon learned of my passion for learning. He began to bring me books in secret. Books that told of beautiful places with beautiful names. France, Italy, Britain, America...so foreign, so free. Places where I could be with my parents. Where I could go to real school. Where I could go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted. Where the Government didn't control me.

I first started thinking of running away when I was thirteen. Britain, I remember deciding. I'll go to Britain. An island protected by a queen, with an army. A place where Communism could never touch me again.

The year I turned 14, the Tokyo Olympics occurred. When the plane touched down, I thought I was in heaven. A place where you could do whatever you wanted to do. And there were supposedly places that were better.

While competing, I talked with people from other countries. It confirmed my beliefs that fleeing to Britain was the best option. I already spoke fluent English and the people seemed nice enough. Once I returned home, though, I was the pride and joy of the Soviet Union. Look at her, they seemed to say. Look at what Communism created.

I was trapped. Completely, utterly trapped. And I hated every minute of it. I stood it for three years, drowning out the world in my training and my learning. But the more I learned, the more I wanted...needed to escape. After voicing my opinions to Alexei, he agreed to help me. Which leads back to where I am now, running for my life.

I trip, slicing my palms on some barbed wire. Stumbling back to my feet, I ignore the hot blood flowing over my calloused hands. I'm dodging tree branches when a thought comes to me.

My palms sting in protest as I pull myself onto the nearest tree branch. I dash from limb to limb like some sort of rodent, increasing the gap between me and my pursuers. This is just like balance beam...at least, I tell myself that. Eventually, voices fade, giving way to blessed silence. Finding a tree hollow, I curl up in a ball and wait for sleep to claim me.

The next morning dawns cold and bright. Seizing a piece of bread from my meagre stash, I slide out of the tree. I have to keep moving...the last words Alexei said to me...don't stop, don't hesitate, don't look back. If at all possible, I will join you in Britain. Good luck, мой цветок.

The coat I'm wearing is painfully thin, doing little to protect me from the cold. A new layer of snow coats the ground, crunching under my feet. Water quickly seeps into my shoes. Feeling in my toes leave soon after that. But I must keep moving.

After two days, my supply of food runs out despite careful rationing. Now a painful gnawing feeling in my stomach joins my aching feet, stinging palms and the agonizing cold.

Three more days pass. At least, I think it was three days. I'm delirious from lack of food. What little body fat I once had is gone along with several other kilograms I couldn't afford to lose. Step after step...dark falls, but I must move. The world is spinning and blurring. As I pass out, the last thing I see is the figure of a person running to me.

It's warm and bright. The bed I'm lying on is soft...oh, no. I've been found.

"Hello, Ekaterina," an old woman says as she walks into the room carrying soup. She hands me the steaming bowl and I begin shoveling it into my mouth.

"Who are you?" I finally ask after my stomach has been filled. She smiles and sits down next to me.

"I am a friend...that is all you need to know," she smiles.

"How did you know who I was?" I shoot upright, suddenly scared.

"They are searching for you...don't worry, I won't turn you in," she soothes. Suddenly, I understand why she didn't tell me her name. If I was captured, I couldn't give her away.

I remain with the woman for a few more days before leaving. It was safer for both of us if I kept moving. So I pack some food and leave, thanking her for her hospitality, friendship and generosity.

After a few days I look a mess again. The cuts marring my palms have reopened, my feet begin to bleed and I am hungry, but not starving. Cold seeps into every fiber of my being yet there is less and less snow on the ground.

The sun rises again, birds chirping and chipmunks chattering. My food stash ran out two days ago so I have no breakfast. If I'm not close to Germany by now, I will die. After a few hours of walking my shoes are soaked through, not with water but with blood. I stop to rest when I hear voices speaking in a rough dialect that I recognize as German.

"Děkuji ti, Pane," I murmur before sitting down. After a few minutes, I feel strong enough to complete my journey. A look at a sign tells me I'm about three kilometers from East Berlin. I should be able to reach it if I travel after dark...It's probably better if I cross the Berlin Wall at night anyway.

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