It didn't feel like it used to. Thinking of what had happened, it came as no surprise, but... It was like the world was torn into millions of small pieces and forced into a tornado. He was in the eye of that tornado - it all spun around him.
And somewhere inside he knew there was no running away. Sure, he was running away, but he couldn't escape her. After all, she was in his head. She lived there. But he kept running. It's not like stopping would make him feel any different, and the small sedating he got from the endorphins produced by the running was at least something. Those gave him the small amount of happiness that kept him at rock bottom. Without them he sank even further down.
The first week, his head had been filled with agonized screams and her face. It took another week until he'd calmed down enough to be able to think in words. Until then, there had only been existence and instinct. Run. And when he ran, existence itself became doubtful. With enough speed, everything became flickers. None of it was real. If it was or not had no meaning. Run.
Then there were words. Not many words, but some. They worked as identifiers for ideas in his head. Her name. Of course. It played on repeat. Not that he did actually hear it, but he saw it. He could trace every line in her name, written by her hand. It felt meditating in its own way, being so close to her name, without having to speak it, think it.
Suicide. He didn't know if he ever would, but the thought of the possibility was soothing. If he just tried hard enough, that would be the end of it. Perhaps he could give up, walk over to the enemy. He wouldn't do it. A shotgun wound to the head. That had worked before, and not even he could recover from not having a head.
The taste of cold, oily metal.
Pull the trigger.
If anything - pain.
Heat.
Silence.
But that wasn't really an option. He loved her too much for that. For one, she'd be sad. And that would mean he would never be able to think of her again. He wasn't sure. That thought felt liberating indeed, but at the same time... Did he want to forget, after all? Wasn't the memory - the thought of her skin, her hair, her smell - all reasons to keep living? Her taste. Even if he was in no way a normal human being... It was ironic, really; a man with his condition could hardly be described as a functional human being anyway.
Hunger. It soared through his stomach. Not that it did matter. It wasn't like hunting could change anything. Nor feeding. It was all excuses from the running. Must get further away. After a couple of days, the soar changed. It was still there, unaffected in volume, but the tone had changed. The feeling wasn't sharp now, but numbing. Like a soft carpet of hunger over him. Ignore it. Keep running. Running with the mouth open when it rained got the foul taste of exercise out of it though. Always something.
It got better with time, when the feelings withered. The rest of them. There was no sorrow, no joy, no grief, no happiness. Just anxiety. It was like he was all alone on a vast and infinite field, covered with silent and deadly cold snow. The sky was gray and dark, and there were no landmarks to be seen anywhere. Around him, the ground was clean. Not a trace of the snow that smothered every sound like a pillow pressed over a face. Withered grass covered with mud. But for some reason, hope hadn't abandoned him. By seeing her again, the field would turn into summer, covered with billions of flowers. It wouldn't give him food or water, but it would be beautiful.
And then, the voices. He didn't know if they'd been there all the time or if they'd came now. Some were just white noise, others actually tried to reason with him. Come home. Stop thinking of her. It didn't work, and the voices knew it. He thought he recognized them, but then, he wasn't totally sure about where the voices ended and where the wicked ghosts whispering incantations began. Kill him. Kill her, and die with her. Kill them all. Oh, it would be such a relief, giving in to that urge. Not having to think, wonder, run. Piece of cake. A double murder. Breaking her neck with one bite, so she didn't have to see the rest. Mercy kill. Then taking care of him. A bite to the neck wouldn't be enough. Plus, he didn't want his enemy to die quickly. Rip him apart, limb by limb. Mutilation had never felt this appealing before. But this didn't work either. It wouldn't solve anything. If anything, it'd only kill hope once and for all. A small glimpse of hope still lingered in him. Run.
When the day came, he noticed where he was. Not too far. He could make it. Should he? Would he? Yes, he should. Even if it would be the ultimate defeat, seeing her with him, it would make her happy. And it was, after all, a field of flowers instead of a field of snow. He could deal with the hunger and thirst later on. So he ran. He had about five hours to make it - get home, get clean, fix clothes, have a haircut... The kitchen shears will do.
The thought of seeing her again made his whole mind tremble. How would he react? Hopefully he could keep calm, at least. He wasn't going to spoil her night. Her night. Unfair. When would he get his night? Never. He let out a sound. It was meant to be a frowning laugh, but sounded more like a snort One of the voices - Leah, being a bitch again - injected a clich quote into my thoughts.
"Life sucks, and then you die."
Yeah, I should be so lucky.