He was foolish to think he could escape. Fool, idiot, dead man. He can't escape, he should have known that from the start. But he was stupid. He knows now he can never get away. It will never leave. He is haunted day and night, always. At time he had thought he might possibly find salvation, but he was always wrong, dead wrong. He's tired, so tired. Wasted, dead, too long a battle, too powerful an enemy. Fool, he did it all to himself. No one else to blame, and he knows that. Perhaps the the hardest thing to accept. He wasted himself, destroyed himself, took his own life away. He killed himself.

It (she?) will never leave, never surrender. Too menacing, too strong. It (she?) is everywhere, in him, around him, in all that know him. No place left to run, inside or out. Just a photo, a passing comment to make conversation, small things. But to him, constant reminders. Calling him, calling, come to collect on his debts, long overdue. He can't run, he must pay the price. He must pay. He must. A price so high, bought time with life, life he didn't have. Now it's time to pay. He was a fool to think that he could get away with it, to run and hide, to run farther and farther, into a dead end.

He is so tired of running, he almost welcomes it. God knows he has waited, wished, for it. Rest, that's all he wants. Peace, that's all he wants. It is his denial that makes him a fool. To deny his ultimate fate. To think that he was living? Hardly. To breathe, heart pumping, is that life? No. To be alive, is not to have life. He's known that all along, fool. His foolishness was to deny that knowledge, to pretend, to exist, undeserving.

So he waits. Long time. When? He is coward. Be afraid, and extend your existence of denial. Fool. He runs, and ends up where he started. Over and over again, like a stupid fucking game. He cannot be victorious, he does not even know the meaning of victory, he cannot know it. He only knows the harsh reality of defeat, a defeat he is unwilling to accept, but a defeat that will ultimately be so. He wants to stop running, he wants to pay the price. He has yet to pay, and so the debt grows larger. A punishment for his foolishness, for his inability to completely and utterly taste the defeat. He will, in time, preferably sooner than later.

And so goes his tale. Onward, a continuing saga of pain. He wants someone, something, to write the ending. That last dance. The grande finale, he waits for it. He cannot wait any longer.