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I am withholding a lot of my drafting, but I am working on a novel that I will be asking for feedback on soon...

And it's great you like my work. When I first showed it to my mom she thought I needed a therapist.
I agree with your mother...

I love writing mainly because it's a way to express yourself without having to directly explain it to someone. Sardonic, sad, and/or depressing writings excite me. I have a topic going if anyone wants to read mah stuff.

Finally a place for all my time to go to. I never would have suspected that NG, a flash community, would have writing forums. This are perfect be. BTW, don't judge by my post count!

This is something that I wrote mainly because I felt very alone. I needed somebody to understand. I will be posting all my writing here eventually. I will also be posting the musical inspiration I had while writing.

In a mind, he walks. In a place very close, yet so far away, a boy walks. Without reason or purpose, he continues on. Devoid of emotion, he cares not what his surroundings bear. Unable and unwilling to think, he has no home, no console.

I saw a life unlived, and I knew something had to be done, I had to do something, give him something or else this endlessness would continue forever . . . Not unless I granted something. A key to existence, to unlock the door of his mind. It was so convenient, the key fit the lock so perfectly, so smoothly. It unbound the shackles that imprisoned him. He no longer walks alone, but shares his new found interest in existing with another. Wandering is a thing of the past, he is whole. He is finished. He no longer has only one path to travel, but an endless sea of possibilities. Lives, freedom, endless freedom. But he no longer needs to walk, for he can fly. On golden wings he knows no limits.

I cringed at the false joy I had given, knowing that there was a reason he was alone . . . but it was not to be. His key, his life, his emotion... is taken by his own, involuntary doing. He has blood on his hands and life has taken back the only fair gift it has to offer. In a sense, though, nothing is fair, not forever. The boy is slowly dying. A disease is leeching off his mind. The boy can no longer see the wings that gave him so much freedom, always they are there, it is only because he does not have the courage to hope that he does not trust them to fly. The shrouding darkness envelopes him, the paths, ideas, the freedom he had found with the love he had lost. And again, he walks a lonely road. His pain still eating away at him, he begins to wonder what he will accomplish by going any further.

The agony I saw before me was unbearable, my mistake had caused so much pain, I had to give back, even if for only a moment. At the apex of his depression, he saw what he had lost, his life, it was there, beckoning him. A smile consumed his hardened face as he began to stumble towards existence. Then he was running at freedom, and now, he was sprinting at emotion. Ignoring his gaping wound, he glimpses the world around him, how things really are, the way he saw them with his freedom. As he continued to run, he began to feel his wings thumping behind him and in that moment, he believed it was real, and so, it was real. His outstretched arms trembled with obsession and his fingers curled and tore at the air. Little did I know, the feelings I had for the mind in which I had dwelt for so long were to bring about my insane demise. But as he swung his arms to snatch up what he thought he deserved, he felt nothing but the cold air of his insanity slip through his fingers. Not a moment later did his belief in himself fade and as soon as it did, what he believed became the limits of possibility. He tumbled to the ground, his illness ripping through his ribcage as he thrashed in the blood soaked dirt. He clawed at the ground, but it turned to stone, for it would not allow him the small satisfaction of digging up the earth, for he had failed. Failed himself. Pain coursed through his body as his leg was severed and he rolled in the blood of his failure. A deep bellow escaped through bleeding lips, he did not believe he could survive . . . and so it was. And in my attempt at controlling something, I had failed, for it seemed to have a mind of it's own.

This doesn't seem like it took you long to write. The sentences are choppy, there are multiple typos, and the story, if any, is lacking. When you do a lead like this, the point is that the reader is given little to no background info, and it's high tension. You didn't really achieve either of these things, because you told a bunch of unimportant details about the main character at the very beginning (something that tends to be a bad hook) and the tension seems like an inside joke. It just "feels" like there's someone following her.

Also, I only was able to imagine a picture of her running after you said that she tripped over a mossy tree root. Try to make a visual before the action starts, so that the reader doesn't feel left out. Begin to describe the character like Zbox said, "her bare, tan brown feet pounded across the uneven forest floor."

If you just fixed the problems with details, and the typos, it wouldn't be bad.