Creative Writing On The Run

On the Run

Run. The only word repeats in my head: Run.
I cannot stop, I am not allowed. No matter how much I am gasping for oxygen to reach my lungs, I cannot. No matter how much my legs burn and ache, I cannot. No matter how much my throat pleads for moisture, I cannot. I repeat to myself, Run, run, run. I have to push against the pain that courses through my bloodstream, trying to take me down—I won’t let it. I have to do this.
Through my heaving breathing, I hear shouts and screams down the alley. Footsteps of my followers are clattering down roughly on the hard cobblestone street. Darkness hides most of my vision, but the odd streetlamp brightens the way. My satchel bounces on my thigh with every bound I take. Its contents are key, everything depends on it.

I have to make it to the rendezvous point. I watch as street names whiz by my sides: Chestnut, Elm, then Willow. I take a hard right turn, then a quick left, determined to get my followers off my trail.
When I am sure they are gone, I enter a large warehouse. From the outside, it looks completely abandoned, but within is a small ragtag group of kids, whom I call family.
I make my way through the maze of boxes and broken machinery to a small, open area. As I enter the clearing, five pairs of beady eyes bore into me, anxious to see if I have succeeded. And indeed, I have. I reach into my satchel and pull out its contents: a bottle of thick brown liquid—a cure.
We gather around the ill body, the youngest boy of our family, Tommy. He has been quite sick for quite some time with a horrifying fever. This is our last hope. We all watch nervously as I loosen the cap and tilt the bottle, letting the syrupy liquid drip down his throat. Now, we can only wait; if his fever hasn’t broken by morning, there is nothing more we can