Running, running, running. Running so far, yet never getting any farther away. Dreams were always something I... Not quite feared, but greatly disliked with a passion. Every night, just before falling asleep, a small tremor of tredeptation would run through me before the darkness of sleep claimed my mind.
For as long as I could remember, every dream I've ever had consisted of one thing: running. But not just running, whenever I ran, No matter where I ended up in my dream, I wouldn't move. No matter how hard I ran, my feet wouldn't take me anywhere. I was constantly running but staying in the same exact place the entire time.
Each time I dreampt, I felt something slowly creeping up on me, reaching out, slowly moving closer until a cold hand would snap around my throat and I'd jerk awake. My heart pounding harshly enough against my ribs to make me wonder if it would pop out of my chest. I hated Dreaming with a passion for this reason alone.