The End of Terror
Evie woke up a day later. Her eyes roved around the room, searching lazily but frantically. Hooked up to so many channels, she looked fragile. The woman who ran a few miles in the morning and ate healthier than most people on the planet was laying on the bed, hooked up to machines because someone had hurt her and drugged her.
For a body that was unused to impurities, it was like a fast-acting poison. She had ground her teeth so much that her jaws had been affected, as were her teeth. Her wrists were so infected that they considered surgery to check if everything was alright. The bullet had been taken out, but she needed months and months of therapy to walk properly and even more time to run.
Would she be able to run on the streets as fast as the wind? She said it gave her a sense of freedom. How much would this affect her in the long run?