He runs.
He runs from all of it.
From that room, the pain of the past and the present, the truth and the lies, them.
He runs from them.
It is not because he is weak. God knows how strong he had been. Had he not made it this far?
It is just that he had been strong for too long.
Too long, too many, too much.
He runs.
He aches. He doesn't know if it's his body or his soul. Does it even matter anymore? He dares to think so.
When had everything lost its meaning?
When had the sun surrendered to the dark, looming clouds?
When had the flower withered, battered by those stronger around it?
He keeps running.
Something wet slips down his cheeks. It's the rain, he tells himself. It's just the rain.
He slips and scrapes his knees and hands. He gets back up.
He runs.
How many times had he told himself the same words over and over? How many times had he locked the door behind him only to fall on his knees? He had lost count.
His breath is coming out in harsh pants. The sky is dark. He cannot see anything.
It hurts. It hurts, dammit.
Was it wrong to believe that the pain was familiar? That he had long grown used to its presence, treating it like a shadow?
A friend?
He has no more tears left in him. He is empty on the inside. What had happened?
Had he not tried? Had he not awoken everyday to this painful, unforgiving world, oh so willing to give it one last chance?
He runs.
How long had he been running? How far? How much distance had he forced between them and himself?
Was there anyone going after him?
He runs.
What was his worth? Was it enough?
He runs faster.
Enough to have someone run after him?
He stumbles, but he keeps running.
Where is he going? Why won't he stop? He can't. It was because of the sliver of hope that lay dormat in some forgotten place in him-
He trips and falls on the mud. It stains his clothes.
A tear betrays him. It will be the last tear he will ever shed. He forces himself to get back up. He forces his legs forward. He keeps going.
Am I worth their time?
He runs.
What about now?
He stumbles.
Am I enough?
He keeps going.
To be loved?
He falls.
To be held?
He gets back up.
To be chased after if I run away?
He runs.
What about now?
.
.
.
Lovino runs.
This is a tribute to Lovino Vargas... South Italy.
Thank you for reading.
