This is the redone version of my story. I'm currently reworking all chapters to make them more appealing. In fact the first chapters grammar had been more than crappy. I'd still like to thank anyone who had already read the story and I want to appologize for having written badly.

I'd enjoy reviews very much.

Chapter 1

He ran, once again, from the people that surrounded him. All but one of the sounds came in an irregular pattern. It was difficult to hear this specific one among all the others. It was not similar to both footsteps and all other sounds. This one sound differed by indicating a running person.

A clear, practised running of a person that had full control of mind and body. Tupp-tupp-tupp-tupp was the echo that hulled against the walls of a long and dark corridor. The other sounds, shouts und loud echos of very many feet, signalised that this person was being followed. Or hunted. In this case there was no difference.

A pair of shoes came into view. His shoes. They were clean and their black leather was not disturbed by any color. They didn't reflect the light that came from dimmed tubes at the ceiling. Between these tubes of light lay islands of darkness. These islands stood outside of the lightsheltered angles the tubes offered and they radiated a suptile, invisible but feelable aura of unknown.

A feeling that everything one feared as a young child could (and would) lurk in these shadows. Waiting, observing, hoping that the runner would leave the weak protective orbs of light that keep them at bay. The light hurted them. He knew it just as they did. But he was too fast for them to be kept inside these strongholds of darkness.

They wanted to close the blackness around him and didn't want to let him enter light again. In his mind not the boogieman, not the closet-monster nor any other childish product of fear from darkness stood there to capture him. No, something closer and more real kept waiting for him. His friends stood there in the shadows. But none tried to hold, stop or hurt him.

Much worse than any physical harm, they pointed at him with one outstretched index finger. But they were cautios not to touch or even hinder his running. They even made way for him when he accidently took a step too much to the left. But can one collide with the phantoms that were pressed against the walls inside these huge areas of blackness?

Each and everyone of his friends he had disappointed, betrayed or left behind returned from the past. So much had been left unsaid, so many things undone, so many chances not used, so many opportunities wasted.

And so many mistakes and failures had been done.

He could see no emotion in the faces of his former friends. They could give him the fate he deserved without any difficulty. But they didn't do that. Instead they all raised their fingers as one. Pointing at the one that was still running though he shouldn't be. They stood there in a line that was similar to honorguards that came when one countryleader visited the other. They stood with a continuity, discipline and agility of a military group as they raised their fingers.

They traced him with their fingers like only trained marksmen could do and followed every single one his of movements. He could jump to the side, throw himself to the ground but their fingers would still trace him like a predator his prey. They wanted to toy with him before sharing the sweet luxury of forgetting with him.

And he wanted to forget. To just leave it all behind. A door at the end of the corridor came closer. That was his key to sweet forgetting. The gate to his future. The portal he had worked so hard for. That was his solution. It was almost like as if the light at the end of the tunnel his friends offered him.

But that was not the solution he wanted. He passed the first isle of darkness. His friend James stood inside it. He had been the first and so he started the long row of his former friends. The face of the silent bystander was an emotionless mask. The phantom also didn't speak but the finger compensated for it tenfold. The fingerpointing only those could give that had enough evidence and hatred to accuse someone of the highest and worst crime:

Treasonry against comrades.

The phantoms that haunted him heaved overwhelming chunks of guilt and sadness upon his fragile shoulders. But they were not real. Or were they? At least they were not the threat he ran from. But they made him feel weak, helpless and lost. He just wanted it to end. His vision became blurry from a fluid that started to fill his eyesockets.

One of his ex-friends looked him deep into the eyes. It was a true glare that only death itself could give. He withstood it without effort. The look wasn't the problem but the fingerpointing and its accusement was. It was an obvious gesture that asked: "Why are you running and not me?" The chief, his second helper and teacher stood between him and the door. His finger made it all unbearable.

He wanted to apologize. To say that he would not repeat his mistakes if he'd be given a second chance. But did he deserve a second chance? His chest and side hurt much from the pain the memorys caused and his legs were willing to simply disobey his orders to walk. So he stood there. The other sounds came closer. Too close. He was so deep in his agony that he didn't notice that his friends had lowered their fingers.

"You forgive me?" The runner was surprised. But as if the phantom could read his mind it brought up the finger again.

"So you don't. I don't blame you." Sadness took over his mind. But the finger showed the real door, not the light at the tunnel's end that his friends had showed. A glimpse of hope rose.

"Yes your right! I wont waste MY chance! Thank you for everything!" The runner was back from his thoughts and in his body again. The pain was immense but not so overwhelming anymore. He noticed that the sounds had come dangerously close. He could make out that the nearest noises were filled with a glee of awaiting and lust. He raised his left upperleg to walk. At first it didn't obey, but after a short moment his guilt lost its iron grip on the muscle.

Appearently his former friends wanted him to cope with his mistakes and their consequences instead of just letting it end so easy. So he ran again even though he wasn't a good runner. After a short while that seemed like an eternity his grip was only more inches away from the doorknob. What if it doesn't open? That would be typical. To lose at the very end, after all the struggle to fail and perish because of a locked door.

He touched the doorknob. But it didn't turn. "This is not real! Stupid american doors!"

He pushed the knob around the opposite direction and it opened. The sounds and their consequences came closer. Silly! He slapped his forehead with a hand and entered another world.

---

Strange I always thought that a second chance looks different. Were the runners thoughts as he closed the door behind himself and turned the knob to the left. Thrice. After having fullfilled that important step to be the only one who had access to a new life, a new chance and hopefully different people he turned and looked at his new surroundings.

A basement. Just like in that one tv-show with the ladyshoe-selling dude who has always lost in life. Just as myself! A cynic smile crept its way across the face, mocking the pain he felt. It was dark and only a small lamp at the stairway across his position gave light. Enough light to see another door. He was about to start walking towards it when he forced himself not to:

"Not now. Work to do."

A couch and an old, bulky wooden closet were in sight, standing on the right side of the room. On the left was a small pooltable. Hmmm… I'll break my back if I try to move the billiardtable. But the couch should work. He moved around the backside of the blue couch and wondered:

"Why was it banished to rot away here? It still looks-" He got around the couch completely and saw the seats. The right one was entirely away and revieled old stains of a wee-like liquid while the left one was ripped up like as Freddy Krueger had murdered it.

"-good. Or not."

He shrugged his shoulders and began to pull the old thing near the door he had come through.

"Well old yeller at least YOU serve a purpose now."

The couch stood upright with the backside against the door.

"Man I should stop talking to myself so much."

The billardtable stood, against all odds, behind the couch. Whow folks who can efford to let this stand around in the basement must be rich. Or dumb. He expacted both to fit.

"HUFFFFFFFFFFFFFF" Closets were appearently not his strong spot. Slowly his "barricade" made progress and he noticed that the door started to erupt under slow blows against it.

"Shut up dumbasses! Man people are impatient these days."

A Problem appeared: Was the door alone hard enough to withstand "them"? And if so, for how long? And the couch was not very trusty-looking either.

"Hmmm I don't think that weestains are gonna keep em off." He took the risk and shoved the couch away. The door slowly bend under the blows. Too much for "runner's" liking. So he pressed himself against the heavy closet, making it go into place. Not satisfied with his work he also put the feather-weight-billiardtable behind the closet.

After making a scowl he went towards the other door when the banging got more intense. He expected the door to break, but it didn't. Appearently everything in this town is more reliable and more conveniantly placed than in……. Ach forgot the name. While shrugging his shoulders he began to turn the doorknob.

To the left, of course: "Dammit stupid."

After turning it right the door opened inwards. He jumped behind two steps just like he had learned, but no one came. Engulfed by curiosity he stuck his head out and saw-

A very beautifull girl. Her brown hair was nice, but her skin was marvellous. He raised an Eyebrow. How long had it been since I saw someone like that? Were his silent thoughts. But appearently just these thoughts gave him away.