My feet ached, but it was well worth it.
I wonder who had said that? They were idiots, whoever they were. My feet ached, and it was not worth it at all. I hated every moment of it. Every moment of the scorching heat, the desperate gulps at tepid water, the people by me, and the sweat, like some gift from a relative you hated, anyways. Anyways. I don't know why I did it. Wasn't for her, that much I know. I was past her, and was glad to be rid of the stupid promises. But it wasn't for myself, neither. Nor for my family or my relatives or anyone I had ever met. I think I wanted to. It wasn't impulse. I just wanted to.
That was stupid of me. But I'm always stupid. That's OK, though. I'm a human being. I'm allowed to it.
It had been terrible. I had hated the sound of the starting horn, rough like a child's scream, fakely cheerful, and then everyone had rushed off in a cloud of dust and I was left with the walkers. I had been running: just slowly. I had hated every second of it. I had hated, also, when they congratulated me as I stumbled in, exhausted, at the end, gave me a cheap, shoddy medal. Waste of money, that's what I think. Complete waste of fifteen bucks.
I had hated it, but it's over now. Doesn't matter. All I'm left with are aching feet, and memories, like some disgusting mucus in your throat.
The ache is going away, now. I kind of miss it. It was like a companion to me through everything afterwards. At least during it, I didn't have to think. I liked not thinking.
I'll do it again. My feet ached, so it was worth it. That's what they should have said.