My hair flies behind me, tickling my neck and arms.

I am a refuge.

I don't know why, though.

My world, it's nothing like yours.

I can't tell you what I'd give to leave it.

But I never will.

I run from the law.

Law is not the same thing you call law.

It's barbaric.

To kill all freaks who rebel this horrid code.

I run from these men with guns strapped to their backs.

My only freedom, my only joy, in this alien world

is my scooter.

It is bright green, with deep wheels. Streaks of white are painted across it.

Every hour, I most stop and turn the handle, for it may get off course.

But I love it.

I sore through the night, on these old roads covered with trees, sheltering me from the demoned darkness. Free of the burdens I carry, as I run from my death.