Sycamore: Followed

I was running.

Running, running.

It was still chasing.

Chasing, chasing.

All I felt were the constants of fear and adrenaline. Its dark presence breathing down my neck and its tattered cloak flitting in my peripheral vision.

Mother had told me not to do it. Again, and again. But I didn't listen. 

The blood was still on my hands. The weight of murder still in my soul. 

My own screams were still echoing in my mind.

But the knife had long slit my throat.

My hands had long done the deed.

For I had ended my life. 

And death followed. 

The End

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