I know who they are. I know the reason they hunt me, the reason I stand out from the mass, indifferent crowds. No, I don't have wings, but my pained heart tells me I should, so I can fly away, away, away, from this maddened world. No, I haven't murdered anyone, but my pained heart tells me I should kill my dangerous pursuers and get on with it. No, I can't do magic, the real or the tricks, and my pained heart consents.
I do not know who I am, only what I am. But even then, my heart isn't sure if it should continue beating for an unknown individual. Why waste the time and effort to pump those many seas of blood when its master can't even name himself, when its master stays silent in humiliation when a presentable and honourable title is requested? No, it's not fair in a parasitic relationship, but life was never fair for me, if you can even call that a life. I don't belong and I know it, but I want to stay. I want to stay in these shadowed forests, mastering the arts of a skilled archer and hunting under the flawed moons of the night. Now, I am forced to develop my natural ability of stealth and intellect to an extent one would think impossible.
Their eyes follow my every footprint on the soft grounds, they hear my rough pants when I run through the scented winds, they sense my wary and caution as the long days pass. It seems as if they are my eyes, seeing every move I make and hearing every word I say. They know when I'm tired, hungry, or pained, and they take every advantage to draw nearer, may it be an inch or a far thousand miles. They manipulate my dreams and warn that I can run, but never hide.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'm scared. My pained heart agrees without doubt, nodding fairly, head bowed with blood spills on the ground. My eyes are dried and there are no more tears to weep, but I'm not sad anyways.
I'm trying to pace myself, but they're always swifter overall. I can hear their run close behind, and I know my time draws nearer. Shadows soon lurk at the edge of my eyes, and I see the blades flash dauntingly in the sheen of light, ready for blood spill and aggrieved screams. I'm opening my mouth to the fresh snowflakes; they say its good luck if you catch the wintry iced flakes that fall from the eternal skies in your mouth.
A single whistle through the chilled air and my burning feet suddenly halt and I fall to the white blanket of snow. The snow mingles with my dark hair and forgotten tears suddenly spring to my eyes, threatening to fall. I'm facing the obscured sky, a hooded face in front of me, a face I had wished I would never see again. My breath is becoming limited and short, but I force myself to scream, my last imprint and memory on the flawed world. The sky is revealed once more and snowflakes fall steadily into my still body and into my open mouth. Over the years, I wondered how much good luck I have accumulated from the snowflakes. My pained heart tells me I should close it for fear of overflowing. Less is more, it tells me. Less is more, but I'm dead either way.