The Winged Girl.

Quinn felt tears of exertion trickle down her chin as she flitted through the maze. All around her the snapping and baying hounds nipped at her heels and ate at her paranoia. Her feet felt numb with exhaustion and her arms were heavy with effort.
She couldn't stop though.
It wasn't that the dogs would catch her; Quinn knew that was impossible - the dogs weren't real, they were in her head. A byproduct of being made to run until passing out. No, Quinn couldn't stop because every time she did, the whitecoats would jab her with the wires.
Wild hair flying around her face, blinding her, Quinn took another pointless turn down another pointless aisle in the supermarket-like maze. It was a torturous arena. The whitecoats' playground.
More tears. More sweat.
Quinn's legs were beginning to quiver, her muscles pleasing with her. Her back crippled with unwanted weight.
At her back, Quinn's two huge wings refused to twitch - the exhaustion of the running stopping her from being able to move an inch.
A phantom object left Quinn sprawling across the floor - maybe her own feet - and, oblivious to the pain of the tasers biting into her flesh, she fell into a deep, faux-serene sleep.