I press my back up against the tree behind me. My legs are shaking, just a second from giving out. I just need some support. The wind and rain feels sharp against my skin, leaving it red and stinging. Is it the storm or pain in my chest knocking me off balance?

I've run a long way. My daily run has become more than just two rounds around the neighbourhood.

I don't know where I'm going. Just that I want to leave.

Will they be out looking for me? Searching for me like a kid who away from his parents. Thing is, I'm not a kid anymore. And I'm not running away to challenge my parents or to cause drama.

I'm running away from the new life waiting for me.

Months ago, hope had still been in my vocabulary. It would get better; they all promised it would get better. Recovery was going to be a slow process, but it would happen. I'd been determined to sing again.

I was going to recover. My vocal cords were going to get stronger. I was going to sing again. 

I'd been holding on to that so tightly it became my truth.

But the real truth was, it didn't get any better.

Okay so, it gets better. Hope makes everything easier. Brighter. You believe and wish and hope and believe and then it all comes spiralling downwards until it gets worse than ever before. And when the rug was pulled from underneath my feet, it took everything with it. I was falling. I couldn't stop falling.

When I hit the ground, it hit hard.

Somewhere far away, I can hear a faint cry. "Michael!"

I'm unable to do anything. My body is too tired. My hands and feet are tied with invisible ropes.

I feel myself sink to the ground. The mud sticks to the bare skin on my legs and arms. I shake. I cry. It's loud but silent. Always silent.