![]() ![]() ‘Fuck you,’ I manage to wheeze, turning to face one of my oldest friends. My feet slow to a stop and I brace my hands on the handles, dropping my head while I work to level out my breathing. ![]() ‘You did it faster yesterday, you stubborn motherfucker.’ I slam my fist on the button and let the machine work me down to a gentle jog, yanking the buds out of my ears and grabbing my T-shirt to wipe my wet face. Glancing down at the screen on the treadmill, I note my distance. I crank up the volume and sprint on for a while longer, pushing air steadily through my nose, roughly wiping away the sweat rolling down my forehead. I smack my hand on the plus button to increase the pace again, my ego refusing to let me stop just yet. Yet when the time has ticked down and the machine automatically starts to slow, my legs do not. Sweat is pouring down my bare chest as I watch the clock across the gym, eyeing the second hand slowly roll around the dial. My pace increases, my breath beginning to become laboured as my run turns into a sprint. Not that I need to run until I can’t feel my legs to achieve that any more. The hammering of my heart tells me I’m alive. The sound of Imagine Dragons’ ‘Believer’ on my iPhone is muffled by the pulse throbbing in my ears. The pounding of my feet on the treadmill is rhythmic and comforting. ![]()
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