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My heart is hammering. I am running so fast that I swear my lungs are going to burst and my legs fall off. Faster, faster, faster, but still they are behind me... getting closer. Determined, I push my body harder, desperate to put distance between us. But still they are getting closer.
I grit my teeth, screw my eyes up in concentration, but then I remember that you run faster if you are relaxed, so I smooth it out again. I don't risk glancing over my shoulder again, but I can hear their footsteps, the pounding of their trainers against the hard ground, the tickle of their breath on my neck. I'm not going to make it. With a roar I push myself as hard as I've ever done. My legs are jelly, I swear I'm going to collapse and then... I make it. Steaming across the finish line, my arms raised in triumph. I catch a momentary glimpse of the crowds, cheering madly, my dad beaming proudly and clapping and my coach jumping up and down like an idiot. I smile as I see them, and think 'that was for you mum. I hope you're proud.' I then sink to the ground, shaking, as an official approaches me and shakes my hand, congratulating me on coming first in the race to raise money for breast cancer. I don't hear him though. Up in the crowd, standing next to my dad and smiling proudly, I swear I can see mum, before she got ill. Before the cancer got her. She looks beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight and, as I watch, she raises her hand, wiggles her fingers at me and then disappears, leaving me staring only at an empty seat and golden sunlight.