Maybe its me, maybe its my fault they sit there waiting, watching. Contemplating my every move and observing my every desire.
They watch the pulse on my neck with intent, knowing the quickening of its tempo gives my true feelings away, licking the sweat from my brow as they taste my fears and ingest my terrors. They know me and chuckle with glee at the wild movements in my eyes as I search for protection.
She sits in the hay field, her sanctuary of threaded golden carpet that is surrounded by the dark forest. She watches the faceless figures moving through the thicket, feeding on her fears and cackling at her struggles. How is it they know when she is at her weakest and only then choose to attack with such ferocity.
The cuts they have left are deep on her skin, the scars have become ragged and raised in…
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