Heart pounding. Sweat pouring down his face. Legs pounding the cold ground with every ounce of might he could muster. George knew all he had to do, all he could do was run. It felt like all the blood had been drained from his legs and was replaced with lactic acid.
He sprinted through the woods, desperate to push his aching body through the pain barrier in order to simply survive. He turned back to see the acrid black smoke rising above the trees. Knowing full well he had to get as far away from that place as possible. He had to put as much distance between himself and he who would soon be in pursuit, knowing that the consequences of being found would be too severe, George couldn’t go back there again, he hated the misery which that place had brought him.
His reverie was interrupted when he suddenly tripped and fell! Damn roots! He took a few seconds to catch his breath and to allow the blood to push the lactic acid from his aching legs when he heard a familiar voice pierce the air, calling for him. George panicked. He couldn’t let himself be caught, so he dragged himself around the other side of the tree and settle behind a large tree trunk. He heard the hated voice calling his name again, but it appeared to be getting quieter, fading away into the cold evening air. George waited five minutes until he was certain that his nemesis was safely away, once he had established this certainty, he ran. He sprinted away again, with something of a triumphant smile on his lips, until…
George felt a ominously familiar weight on his back as his legs collapsed from underneath him and he collapsed onto the ground. Caked in mud and with a leaden feeling in his stomach, he turned slowly around to face his captor, he almost winced as he saw his face, and cringed further when he heard the dreaded words….
Got you Georgie, you’re it!
Dammit, he thought, he hated being ‘it’.