As my lungs expanded and deflated quickly again and again, working to make sure I stayed alive despite not feeling that way at all, my legs moved rapidly to carry me to someplace other than the hospital. With tears brimming my eyes and a blurred vision, I ran. Out the door, into the courtyard, past all the concerned nurses and curious doctors, past all the pedestrians getting out from work, past society.

The conception of liberation was a fleeting emotion -- there was no prominence or substance to it, at the moment. There was only fear. Fear of the future, of the unknown, of what would happen to the guilt that made a home for itself deep within my heart. Would it blossom into something bigger, brighter, more vicious and inescapable?

These thoughts plagued my mind I ran to the horizon with a shake in my step and a weight in my chest.

My arms pumped furiously as I dashed to keep up with the Sun, my eyes glued to the road ahead of me, unwilling to look anywhere else because of what they might see -- the disappointed stares of those around me, the judgmental sneers of the doubting? A certain heat boiled within my being as I considered the thought.

It seemed as if my soul had been set on fire.

This fire burned with remarkable splendor, sparks spewing from the red flames that roared and lapped against my skin from the inside, sending streaks of red across the surface of my body. The blaze caused the flesh of the metaphysical to shrivel up, to blacken, to change, with nothing new sprouting from the old, withered corpse. No abundant life replaced the deceased because I was lacking the resources. 

There was no hope that watered the seeds of willingness, nor the seeds that came from the fruit of desire -- a fruit that I'd so recklessly bit into without considering the repercussions that might've laid ahead if I had discovered a poisoned core. Alas, the venomous kerosene that flowed so freely from the core ignited the spark that had been building inside for so long.

And so here we were.

I was bound to be lit aflame one day or another.

The blazes clouded my vision, turning the evening sky red and yellow and black, sending my spirit into the uproar of flames, the journey towards the eye of the storm, where perhaps, everything would settle down and I could find safety.

I felt tired -- the first in a long time. The onslaught of emotion pounded incessantly at my head as I worked myself to the bone in order to just go, to get away from this mess, this torturous event that I prayed would cease soon.

And there were no coherent thoughts that came to mind when fleeing. All there was was the never-ending notion, the primal instinct, to get out. To run away and hide from my shame as a coward and a sinner.

As I did so, I questioned myself. 

When had things become this way? I never once imagined myself to be the person who would choose to live a life like this. Why have I restored to such violent and uncharacteristic means? Was it representative of myself, or of another, deviant personality? To be honest, I don't think I would ever know. 

And that terrified me.

When have I developed this sense of escapism, this cowardice? 

After all that I endured up to this point. After the endless days and the tear-filled nights that I suffered through, that I carried on my back like a pile of stones. After every injury, every burn, scrape, even deep lesions in my skin that left my parents worrying like there was no tomorrow --

-- I ran away.

For the first time, I ran away; with tears in my eyes and a pounding in my head, I progressed onwards towards somewhere other than where I was now.

Perhaps I no longer wanted to endure it -- the pain, that is. 

My lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

No; I never wanted to endure it -- I was just forced to.

All the trauma that had been pushed back, rejected, never even touched still lingered in the depths of my mind. From the abductions to the crippling self doubt, to the fact that I was deprived of the ones that had always supported and wholly loved me. There was an inherent lack of connection between my surroundings and me -- I just chose to never acknowledge it.

I was a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode.

This discovery of the haunting truth that I prayed to never have even existed in the first place lit the short fuse, and within moments, I had detonated. It was madness.

When the explosion occurred, it consumed everything.

And I was left with nothing but a sensation of emptiness and regret. My body was devoid of a spirit, and therefore hollow -- only a shell of my past self remained. The more I thought about it the more nauseous and abashed I became. 

It was shameful, to be in this state when a hero was expected to be strong, to push through any obstacle thrown their way, to be powerful, unmoving -- not to be stagnant or decrepit in their endeavors. I was willing to admit that my contributions to build myself up to that standard were not meager, but I desperately searched for an answer as to why it never seemed to be enough in the eyes of those put upon a pedestal. I wracked my brain for some kind of lead, a hint, a clue, just something. 

And an idea tugged on the fishing line I'd cast out into the sea of thought.

Was I simply not enough?

It negated the adrenaline coursing through my body, bringing me to finally start feeling a building flare in my lungs, the fine ligaments of the organ burning, the insides drying from the introduction of suddenly un-breathable oxygen. Perhaps it was best described as shock -- a dramatic shift from a dwelling, insentient state to a completely conscious one.

As I panicked and withdrew my hand and pulled up the seemingly small idea, I found that that course of action had been exceedingly foolish. From the cusp of burial, old memories had been unearthed and pushed to the forefronts of my consciousness.

My mind started to blare the garishly loud noise of the thoughts I had as someone who had been untouched by the truth of the world. I brought forth the memories of when I genuinely believed that I could be a hero, that I could be someone who could change my own destiny despite being so undoubtedly disadvantaged in a hero society.

I blamed myself for everything.

For the pain and devastation I had caused those around me, for the dreaded fate that awaited me on the other side, now that I had abandoned the people closest to me at the hospital, for the high expectations I had of myself and my blatant ignorance in regards to my own abilities and capacity for success.

In reality, I panted harshly, feeling blood pound in my head, the undulations smashing against my skull in unrelenting waves of pain. My eyes started to close as I felt faint, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness but not daring to fall off because of my pride. 

My throat felt dry, almost as if it could crack under any amount of applied pressure to the right spots. The tendons and muscles in my legs shrieked as they ignited, suffering synonymously with my arms, limbs that blew through cold wind, but burned as if they were dappled with hot coals. However, fueled by a stinging feeling of pain and an insistent and present urge to run further away from this unfavorable scene, I choked through the pain. 

I didn't notice through my stupor, but by now, I was drawing the attention of the masses. Passersby gave me odd looks, with some of them holding concern in their confused gazes. I cared, immensely so -- perhaps even a little too much -- about their views and perceptions of me, of how they would perceive the newly debuted "quirkless hero" running away with terror in their eyes.

But I persisted for a while, until I reached the streets that did not know of hordes of people, that were covered in gravel and cigarettes butts, and newspaper advents that were ripped from tall lampposts and strewn on the ground. The Sun never touched certain parts of the road, as it was blocked by sky-high towers and industrial buildings that loomed over the neighborhood. An eerie coldness befell the setting because of this.

The area seemed abandoned, almost. 

And I became distracted.

Perhaps it was the quietude, or the unfamiliarity of my surroundings that allowed for me to let my guard down, and for my body's plea to finally reach my mind. The aches in my muscles and the uneasy sensation that thrummed through my chest cracked my resolve.

For half a second, it hit me.

This oddly familiar sense of restless peace, in which no harm would come to my conscience if it were in slumber. No belittling thoughts, no jeers, no self-doubt, nothing. It was a forced sereneness, but it served as tranquility nonetheless.

And in that moment, I never wished to prolong anything more than that feeling. My body suddenly lurched forwards as I unconsciously succumbed to this unparalleled bliss. 

In these instances of torment, even the slightest notions of security was comforting.

So I closed my eyes and decided let go upon recognizing my eagerness to surrender to the depths of whatever laid beyond this realm.

The world went dark as I collapsed.