Prologue
My vision discombobulates as the cortex of my mind configures in motions I can't keep up with. Another thing I can't keep up with are these people piling infront of me, as I feel myself descending back into the tumbles of the rumbling of steps, their gallops heard behind me, then besides me, now infront of me. I can't push any furthur. I can't stop, either. What can I do, for once in my life?
I can't even give up. I know I still have it in me to keep going, but I can't get myself to quit. It's not like anyone I know is looking, or anyone is watching me, saying, "Oh, look at how bad Tommy's running!" or, "Boy! He might as well quit now!" Matter of fact I hope someone puts disregard to my name. And I hope I hear it - I have no motivation in this empty husk of a body called "Thomas Welkon", and the only thing that'll help is to put a break to my stagnation.
But I don't care if my vitality ignites or not. That's the thing.
I'm not depressed. I'm not mentally ill or disabled in any way; rather I feel it's quite the opposite. Nothing really sways me. My brother has a ludicrious power trip though, everything sways him. But not me. And I wish it did.
I pass the finish line. Last. Everyone has already gone out to their friends while I scramble up the last of my will to finish. My headaches are relieved, gone, once I've stopped running. Now all I can think about is sleeping forever.
The 800 meter took me four minutes and 7 seconds, which is quite poor. I didn't even hit my PR of three minutes and forty seconds; still poor. Everyone knows I'm last place, everyone in my family always asks. I tell them the truth every single time.
Tom Welkens placed last.
