I never knew that someone’s whole life could end within the span of fifteen seconds.

Two weeks earlier:

“Romano, pick up the pace!” I distantly hear my fitness coach shouting at me, grumbling under his breath something about stupid idiot boys not healing fast enough. Although I understand his impatience, I did just recently receive a concussion and five fractured ribs - but who’s counting?

I grit my teeth and run faster, quickly passing the four boys that were ahead of me on the track. My ribs groan in protest, but I ignore the pain, knowing full well that my coach would tell me to shake it off and keep running. That was why I had gotten hurt in the first place - I hadn’t been fast enough. That night flashes before my eyes: the snap and crunch of bones being crushed under a boot, the hissed just tell me what you know and I’ll stop, the screams of Bash as they carved him up, as they tortured him, the screams, his screams, my screams, so much screaming…

I stumble, blinking back the shining sun in confusion. I again hear my coach yelling, but I block out the noise and keep running. I can’t ever stop, if only for Bash. If I just keep running, maybe I can bring him back to life.

But that’s not how life works, is it?