I breathe heavily as I run to escape from my terrible captor. Even though my feet are tired, more tired than they've ever been, I keep going. But no matter how fast I run, I can feel it getting closer. I feel the cold air hitting my face as I try to run faster. But my legs are sore and tired. They begin to slow down. I give it my all, but I can not escape. Suddenly, my legs give out. I fall to the ground, as depression wraps its cold arms around me. I can't escape. I never can. I give in slowly. I have no other option. Fighting it doesn't work. Just when I think I've gotten better, I hear those footsteps behind me that are all too familiar. Sometimes I run. But sometimes, instead of running, I stop. Sometimes I wait and let it happen. I look at it, straight in its face, and allow it to take over completely. Sometimes, however, I get away. I run and run until I can't feel its cold breath on my neck anymore. Finally, I get away. Or, should I say, I think I've gotten away. Because one of the many horrible things about depression is that it doesn't give up. No matter how many times I think I've escaped, it will always be nearby. It will always be around the corner or down some dark alley, waiting. Waiting, as if it were a predator, and I was the prey. No matter how far ahead I am, or how fast I run, it will always find me again.