the breeze lacks a whisper at this hour as it sweeps over me, rustling the grass i am using for comfort. this wind grabs hold of each swaying corn stalk and shakes it a little more, as if he needs signals to find me.
he can smell me. the wounds are still fresh.
i've been running for days. he's caught me a few times, but i steadied my step; i learned how to move in leaps and bounds without tiring. i went a week uncaught.
i ate a meal. i slept.
i was vulnerable.
he nipped me at the ankles at first, playfully yet still stern. it wasn't until i was pinned under him, struck with glistening red streaks, when he showed me his teeth; that's when i knew, he was tired of running too.
so i came here to die.
he's not trying to keep quiet anymore. he knows i know he's near.
but i don't flinch, i make no sounds. i don't even whimper when his breath cruises warmly over my cheek.
he makes it quick. he wastes no time tearing my flesh from the bones it clung to, panting heavily over me, his beard covered in red, his teeth stained just the same.
the wild look has gone from his eyes. now, he is pathetic, spent,
tired, lonely.
he sleeps with his nose buried in my hair.