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Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2046079-Mirage
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by OritG Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Fantasy · #2046079
Sometimes, the most dangerous thing in a persecution isn´t exactly the persecutor...
Everyone is running, so I run along with them.

I dont know who's after us or what we are escaping from, but we are running as if to save our lives.

My ears catch a few whispers that materialize like a frozen cloud in their escape of the confidant's trembling lips; but none of these murmurs are revealing much information. All I hear is talk of the hideous cold that makes this escape so strenuous and the overwhelming panic that is taking over.

Suddenly, a beautiful blond girl utters, with a fragile voice, a secret. It wasnt intended for me, but it still creeps with naughtiness to my reach:

"Mommy, what should I do if the ghost catches me?"

The words climb with their fine and delicate tentacles to my conscience, suffocating me with an agonizing cold.

With an awakening shudder, I realize I have stopped in my tracks. The mental paralysis that took over my senses also froze my legs. I am now standing by myself, ensconced in the dust of the mad crowd ahead of me. With each second the others are farther and farther away.

So I start running again. My bewildered imagination tries to convince me that I will never be able to reach them, because- it claims- the closer I get, the faster they run. Nonsense.

Finally, I am able to see some figures. Blacks and grays are somehow materializing in the mist.

I hear a scream. It pierces through the night's air like a shining blade. Too immature to be coming from an adult, I assume it must have escaped from a child's mouth. Perhaps it is the beautiful blond girl who had inadvertently shared with me her toxic whisper.

I continue running farther down the road. I can make out the silhouette of a little one lying in the floor between clouds of the twilight, her feet entangled in some branches of a fallen tree nearby.

My heart pumping, I race towards her to aid her, in some pathetic attempt of repaying my debt to her.
With each step I get closer; I can recognize more of the child: her delicate curls, her fine dress, and her white skin. It is definitely her.

Closer.
I am now standing over her and I come near.
I am close enough to perceive her beautiful features trembling with fear.

Her red lips are parted, her teeth are chattering.
Her pale eyes stare at me with the purest panic I had never imagined could exist.
But there is something else in those enormous green eyes.

A reflection of a ghost is staring back at me.

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