Mary never thought of Friday or Monday as days of victory. Many thought of Monday as victory for the working man over the lazy man by staring their week over again. Many thought of Friday as the victory, because it meant the weekend was starting.
To her, neither day was a victory, because the start or end of something wasn’t really a victory so much as another point in the endless cycle of humanity; something she’d long grown used to.
No, to her, true victory were the days in the middle where you conytinued to trudge through all of your work no matter how heavy the load.
He was so tired of running. So very tired.
It wasn’t like he’d had a choice in the matter.
(There’s always a choice.)
Neal didn’t slump against the wall, but he dearly wished he could. He only had a moment to rest before he had to start moving again.
(He just wanted to rest.)
Why should he have to run?
Why couldn’t they just understand?
(Why couldn’t he go home?)
(You can’t always go home.)
(He should have remembered that.)
Behind him, a twig snapped.
Uncomfortable in the extreme, itchy hair.
I usually write a lot (or a little), but I’m not one of few words even if the writing is only a little, so I decided for my response to the Dungeon Prompt: Outside Our Comfort Zone that I would write as little as possible. Also, I was sick over the weekend and so was very uncomfortable physically.