Screaming.

Slapping away the tree limbs; brushing the sticky Spanish moss from the skin. A slow motion flight recklessly crashing into its surroundings.

A vague knowledge of something behind.

Running to? Some sort of light at the end; some sort of destination. Some sort of departure.

Shoes sticking in the mud. Feet won't follow the legs, pulling out of the sneakers and leaving them behind. Like swimming through Jello. Frantic and powerless.

Running out of time. Can't outrun it.

And then, waking up in a state of fear and arousal. Wet hair sticking to the back of the neck. Exhausted by the exertion of sleep. Relief and amazement. Confusion.

Did I win?