In a Dark, Dark Wood

I AM RUNNING.

I am running through moonlit woods, with branches tearing at my clothes and my feet catching in the snow-bowed bracken.

Brambles slash at my hands. My breath tears in my throat. It hurts. Everything hurts.

But this is what I do. I run. I can do this.

Always when I run there’s a mantra inside my head. The time I want to get, or the frustrations I’m pounding away against the tarmac.

But this time one word, one thought, pounds inside me.

James. James. James.

I must get there. I must get to the road before— And then there it is, a black snake of tarmac in the moonlight, and I can hear the roar of an engine coming, and the white lines shine so bright they hurt my eyes, the black tree trunks like slashes against the light.

Am I too late?

I force myself down the last thirty metres, tripping over fallen logs, my heart like a drum in my breast.

James.

And I’m too late – the car is too close, I can’t stop it.

I fling myself onto the tarmac, my arms outstretched.

‘Stop!’