The Boy took off running. There is no looking back. For looking back would be to admit the wrong. See the fault. Not his own, but that of his forebears.
So long now he had felt trapped, held down by something not of his own creation. Something he helplessly had to carry the weight of. The choice was not his. But this choice, to run, was his own.
What freedom is found in those strides as he sheds everything thing that once bound him. Each foot hitting the pavement sends a shock of relief through his body. You see, this Boy is much unlike the other young boys. This difference is not something consciously known, but felt deep down. That feeling is the catalyst for the run and the break to freedom.
The wind blows his hair as he runs faster. Faster. He can see the unmarked boundary all the others dare not cross. His heart thuds in his chest. This could be it. His liberation could be real this once.
With a muted THUD, something heavy and solid strikes him in the small of his back. He is toppling, rolling head over in the grass. The pain is what is real now. The boy struggles to get to his feet. He must keep going. And he knows that to look back would mean utter failure.
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